


Letters

by Reginalivesagain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Kiss, Harry befriends Narcissa, Humor, Humour, M/M, funny ending, letter writing, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-10 01:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18650059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reginalivesagain/pseuds/Reginalivesagain
Summary: Letters, a role playing game, and a broken foot do what they do best: bring people together in romance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a tumblr post made by sea-rogue. While this is a complete work, my co-author and I are going to be posting it one chapter every two or three days. You know, for suspense lol.  
> Disclaimer: We do not claim to own any of the characters in this story. All rights to go JK Rowling and Warner Brothers.

It had been bothering Harry for weeks, and therefore bothering both Ron and Hermione, since he wouldn’t shut up about it. They, of course, thought he was mad for even having the urge to write a thank you letter to Narcissa Malfoy, of all people— it’s been years, they’d argued, she probably didn’t even bother to think of him these days— but Harry could not shake the feeling that he owed her some sort of appreciation. Truthfully, Harry wasn’t even sure why he suddenly had the urge to thank her. His friends were probably right, and his letter would most likely serve as an irritating interruption to her normally peaceful existence. She had saved his life, however, that day in the forest. Typically when one saved another’s life they were meant to offer thanks in some way, and really, what other way was Harry meant to say thank you than a letter? He couldn’t exactly do it in person. Well, perhaps he could, but he wasn’t going to make the trek to Wiltshire and risk offending some pureblood standard by showing up unannounced, or something. A basket of fruit could be interpreted in many ways, and he wasn’t sure the point would be understood with such a vague gesture. Sending her money would not only be offensive, most likely, but it wasn’t as though she had a need for it; even after the reparations were paid by the Malfoys, they remained one of the wealthiest wizarding families in England.

So, in the end, after weeks of bouncing ideas off of Ron and Hermione and being told over and over that he was being ridiculous, he decided to write a bloody letter. It had taken him eons to start; having made up his mind to do it was one thing, but actually putting the words on the page was another. For a solid hour he had sat staring blankly at the empty roll of parchment, trying to find the proper words to express his gratitude without either sounding inanely sappy or like he had gone off the deep end. He had even begun the intro a few times only to scribble over everything he had written and toss the scrap in the waste bin.

In the end, frustration took over and he gave up trying to write something he thought would be to her liking. If she couldn’t accept his gratitude in his poorly written way, maybe she didn’t truly deserve it anyhow. 

_Mrs. Malfoy,_ he wrote, _I’m writing to thank you for saving my life._ Well, there, that was the gist of it. Though he could hardly leave it at that, he supposed.

_I wasn’t really sure how to go about this, and I don’t know if it’s proper, but there you have it. Honesty was probably his best route, as he wasn’t particularly good with propriety. Ron and Hermione think I’m bonkers, writing to you like this, and it’s okay if you agree with them. Hermione’s seldom wrong, anyway. Still, I felt I owed it to you. I never got the chance after everything that happened to bring it up, but I really am grateful. Maybe that isn’t exactly true, though, now that I think about it. I’ve had nearly seven years to thank you. Maybe I shouldn’t even bother. I just thought you should know that I do appreciate that I’m able to… be alive. And do things that living people do. You’re the best?_

He siphoned that last bit out with his wand and tried again. He knew he was rambling at this point and nearly considered tossing this final attempt in the bin and heading to bed, but his resolve stuck and he finished the letter. 

_Many, many thanks. I hope that you’re enjoying doing things that living people do as well._

_-Harry Potter_

It was the best go he had. He knew that no matter how long he stared at the note, nor how many revisions he considered, it wasn’t bound to come out much better. After charming the parchment dry, he summoned the owl that Hermione had forced him into taking care of. Dinky was a reliable owl, even if he was nothing compared to Hedwig. The hour was a bit late for sending post, but Harry knew that if he didn’t send it now, he’d lose his nerve and never send it. Dinky didn’t seem to mind that he was being made to work during his usual waking hours, at least. The bird nuzzled Harry’s hand and made an odd purr-like sound, hopping rapidly back and forth between his clawed talons on the desk in a way that Harry begrudgingly found adorable. 

“Alright, yes, you’re very sweet,” Harry muttered, tying the rolled parchment to the owl’s proffered leg. “Off you go.” 

Harry watched from his window as the bird winged away into the night, wondering if he was proving Hermione right yet again and making a prat of himself. At least he would rest easier, or so he hoped.

 

oOo

 

“You _didn’t,_ ” Hermione wrongly insisted, disbelief and amusement painting an odd picture of her face. 

“I did, though,” Harry repeated, shame heating his cheeks pink.

“‘I hope that you’re enjoying doing things that living people do...’ Harry.” She stopped there, her mouth a bit open as she searched for more to say, but couldn’t gather the words. Understanding that there were no words to encompass just how peabrained Harry was, she pinched her lips shut and she heaved a heavy exhale through her nostrils.

“Was that… bad?” Immediately Harry got his answer through the widening of Hermione’s brown eyes. 

“You’re officially cancelled, and I’m selling you to a circus,” she snapped, not quite successfully hiding the giggle floating beneath her reprimand. “Do you honestly have to ask?”

“Well, I’ve never taken a writing class, or anything!” Harry poorly defended himself, suddenly realising that perhaps one in the morning wasn’t the best time to write an important letter. “How was I supposed to know— actually, don’t answer that.”

“It’s called common sense, and if you can’t manage to scrounge together even a bit of it, I’m going to stop letting you visit me on my lunch breaks… Has she responded yet?”

Sighing, Harry slouched down in the high-backed satin chair. “No, and I’m starting to think she won’t. Not-not that I expected her to,” he quickly amended.

Hermione smirked, seeing right through his pretense. “You seem disappointed. I think maybe you did expect a response, although I can’t imagine how one would go about replying to a load of drivel like what you sent her.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” he groaned, and Hermione simply lifted one eyebrow. “Alright, maybe it was awful.” Hermione’s brow lifted further. “It was definitely one of the worst letters I’ve ever written— _oh my god._ ” 

“Now you’re getting it.”

Placing his face in his palms and elbows on his knees, Harry continued to groan. Of course Mrs. Malfoy wouldn’t respond, and he’d be lucky if she didn’t submit his stupid letter to the _Daily Prophet_ to show the world just how big of a nutter he was. 

“What have I done?” Harry moaned pathetically. 

“You’ve made a fool of yourself, just like I said you would,” Hermione replied smugly. Without lifting his head, Harry knew she had crossed her arms over her abdomen and was smirking in a very self-satisfied way. “If you’d only listened to me from the beginning, you could’ve avoided this mess altogether.”

And that was just it, wasn’t it? Always, Hermione was right and Harry was wrong, and he should just accept that as fact from here on out. Perhaps his life would have been a bit less hectic if he’d adhered to this tenet. 

Taking on a more comforting tone, Hermione said, “Don’t beat yourself up too badly. At least now you’ve scratched this weird, nonsensical itch and it won’t need to interfere with your life any longer.” 

Harry’s head shot up in panic. “No, I have to make this right somehow—”

“Are you daft? You’ll only make matters worse!”

“Okay, yes, you’re right,” he sighed, recalling that he’d only just moments ago decided Hermione was not to be argued with. “Fuck. Then what do I do?” Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“You leave this whole matter alone. Pretend it never even happened.” It seemed fairly obvious to her.

“I’m not sure I can do that.” The embarrassment he was feeling seemed to only be building by the second, and every time he thought about the fact that he’d spoken to a _Malfoy_ so casually he thought he’d die in Hermione’s expensive office chair.

“Try.”

 

oOo

 

Several weeks had gone by since Harry had sent his awful letter and no reply had come. He’d nearly forgotten about it, just like Hermione had suggested. In fact, Harry was getting to the point where he could go an entire day without an intrusive memory of his thank-you popping up at random intervals, causing him to go scarlet from the neck up. He’d put his focus into helping Neville in his greenhouse, or brainstorming with George on more shop items, and even practicing with Ginny for her upcoming game with the Harpies. Since he’d resigned from the Aurors a couple years back, he liked to help out his friends and family with their endeavors. It seemed as though someone else would need a spare hand as soon as he’d finished helping one person, so he kept fairly busy as he tried to figure out what it was he wanted to do career-wise. Sometimes Luna would pop home in between her travels, too, so he’d spend several nights at her flat catching up with her and her many guests. He was actually due to head to her place for yet another ‘welcome home’ party shortly, and was in the middle of packing an overnight bag when his bedroom window swung more fully open, admitting a very regal looking owl. 

“Well hello there,” Harry muttered, hesitant to reach out to the bird too quickly. It appeared to be of the biting sort, he thought, judging by the way the owl glared at him, clearly unimpressed. Harry had never realised he could feel so judged by a bird. “You must be the Malfoy owl, eh?” As if an owl like this could belong to anyone else. Maybe Percy, but Harry had already met his owl and it was marginally friendlier than this one.

As if unable to stand Harry’s presence any longer, the owl nipped the string tying the scroll to his leg, cutting it free. Harry offered it a treat and struggled not to openly laugh at the stuck-up bird as it practically scoffed at his handful and flew off again. Up until then, Harry had been unaware that owls could scoff, but he wasn’t sure what else to call what that owl had just done. 

Shrugging off the strange interaction with the Malfoys’ owl, Harry unrolled the thick, pricey parchment and began reading. Excitement and anxiety built in his stomach, nearly indistinguishable from each other.

 _Mr. Potter,_ it began, _how very thoughtful of you to send thanks, even after all these years. I must admit, your letter was strange and quite unexpected, though not unappreciated. I mean no offense by this, but feel myself drawn to asking if you’ve ever considered taking a writing class of some sort. I took one shortly before Lucius and I married all those years ago and it helped immensely in regards to letter writing. Sometimes getting the words one intends to say out onto parchment can be more difficult than we’d like— I happen to know from experience._

_I find my feelings regarding my actions that day and your response complicated. I’m sure you could easily guess my motives for doing what I did: while I could pretend I had noble intentions, my first and forthright concern was finding my son and keeping him safe. It was not personal to you, and yet you’re grateful. To say that we haven’t been on the best of terms would be an understatement. We’ve always been on different sides, and I know I’ve been rather impolite on more than one occasion. Still, you find it within yourself to have appreciation for my actions, and to make it known to me. Such interesting creatures, we humans are._

_While I’m sure we’ve both changed over the years, I can’t help but feel that your attempt to reconnect is going to end in your disappointment. Unless, that is, your objective was not to reconnect, but simply to gain some peace of mind. In that case, I expect you have succeeded._

_Regarding your hopes, I have indeed been enjoying doing things that living people do, rest assured. Although, that was a rather interesting way to end a letter, I must say. I don’t believe anyone has said something like that to me. It was refreshing, to be frank. Most people don’t have the courage to speak to me in such a casual manner. While some may consider it disrespectful, I — for reasons unknown to me— found it charming, in a curious, unorthodox way._

_I do hope that you’ve been living your life to the fullest post-war. Merlin knows you never were able to in your school days. We all have been recovering from the damage and it’s good to leave that behind occasionally and just enjoy the moment._

_Well wishes for you and yours, N.M._

As he finished reading the letter, something inside Harry blossomed into a large ball in the centre of his chest. It felt like pride interspersed between interest and yet more excitement. Her reply had been better than Harry had expected, at least. Much better. She hadn’t insulted him once, and apparently had decided against displaying his stupidity for all to see in the press. She had even, in her stuffy, proper way, opened up to him a small bit. It seemed like she had, anyway. 

Abandoning his half-packed bag on his bed, he sat at his desk and began writing a response. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to, but he couldn’t help it. He had things he wanted to say in response, and couldn’t see why it would be a negative thing to write back. She’d responded to him, after all, why couldn’t he do the same? 

_Mrs. Malfoy, thank you for writing to me. I didn’t really expect a response, especially after so long, but I’m sort of excited that you have decided to reply. Maybe I’ll end up disappointed, but I can’t see why. It isn’t as though I assumed you’d completely abandoned your political standpoints. I’ll never agree with you on them, but the only way I’d be disappointed is if I’d expected something else._

_As far as living life to the fullest goes, I can’t say I’ve been exactly doing that, but close enough. You might have heard about my resignation from the Aurors two years ago. I assume that, by now, most people are aware, but probably the majority of people don’t have a clue as to why. Some speculated that I suffered an embarrassing injury (I won’t bother listing examples… you really don’t want to know), while others thought it was a lack of talent on my part. They figured that my defeat of Voldemort was a chance sort of thing, and that I wasn’t really all that great at defensive magic._

_The real reason is significantly more boring than that: I got tired of it. Most of the job was sitting behind a desk filing paperwork, requesting the proper forms for cases and being denied them repeatedly until the case was shelved as unsolvable, investigating dead ends and writing up more paperwork on said dead ends, attempting to recover lost paperwork that had somehow been sent to the wrong department, and gossiping in the canteen. I could count on both hands, and have fingers left over, the amount of times I actually went out on the field for something of real importance. Not to mention the absolutely stupid amount of red tape in the Ministry, which only ever made my job more difficult to do. And, you know, it wasn’t really as if I wanted a thrilling job, or whatever— after the war I hoped my run-ins with danger would decrease, and thankfully they did— but even just a little stroll away from monotony would’ve been nice. Or, maybe, just getting one case settled correctly even one time. That would’ve been incredible._

_Anyway, after I quit the Aurors I started helping people I know with their businesses and studies. That keeps me from thinking too hard about the fact that I’m going nowhere in life, so it serves its purpose. As much as I enjoy helping my friends with the things they’re passionate about, it would be nice to have a passion of my own to delve into. Nothing seems to be sticking out to me, though, and I’m beginning to think that maybe I’m not fit to work in the wizarding world. Everyone says how I’d be such an amazing politician, but then you and Hermione both told me I should take a writing class within a three week period of time, so that’s unlikely. My public speaking is even worse than my letter writing. On top of that, I think I’ve had my fair share of ministry business. I don’t think I’d like to work in any position there, as far as I can tell._

_Wow, I’m just realising that I’ve filled the majority of this roll with self-pity. Feel free to skip to the end if this is too dull, which I assume it will be._

_What about you? What have you been doing since the war? You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t wish to, but I must admit I’m curious. The Malfoys have stayed far away from the public eye since the trials ended, so for all I know you could’ve moved to Timbuktu and taken up rice farming. I could use some tips on avoiding the press, if you’ve got any, by the way. No matter how hard I try, they always seem to get pictures of me to make up far-fetched stories about._

_Thank you for writing._

_Harry_

 

oOo

 

With Narcissa Malfoy’s letter held inconspicuously at his side, Harry walked proudly up to the table Ron and Hermione had seated themselves at in their regular pub. Hermione’s eyes flew immediately to the roll of parchment, while Ron remained oblivious, standing up to give Harry a one-armed hug and a slap on the back. Hermione crossed her arms over her stomach, eyeing the parchment curiously.

“What’s that?” she asked, getting straight to the point. Harry didn’t usually bring anything but himself to pub night, so it seemed strange to her that he had brought something extra. 

“Oh, this?” Harry replied, holding up the parchment. “Just a little bit of proof as to why you aren’t always right, and that sometimes I do make good decisions on my own.” 

With a snort of disbelief, Hermione said, “I hardly believe that.”

“That had better be some solid proof,” Ron said, nudging Harry’s ribs with an elbow, “or you’re in for quite the debate. Three pints, the usual,” he called to the passing barmaid, who shot him a thumbs up in return. 

“It’s solid, alright.” A grin of self satisfaction spread across Harry’s face as he charmed the parchment flat and passed it to Hermione. “Read it and weep, as they say.”

Less than a minute later, Hermione slowly looked up at Harry, lips pursed and eyebrows tilted down in the middle.

“Please tell me you didn’t respond to this, Harry.”

“What is it?” Ron asked, completely in the dark. 

“It’s ridiculous, is what it is.”

“No,” Harry argued, “it’s evidence. A letter from Narcissa Malfoy that is not filled with malice and insults. And yes, I did write back, only this time I didn’t make a complete idiot of myself.”

“You have this… tendency to think that you’re not being an idiot when, in fact—” Hermione was cut off by Ron’s loud clearing of his throat.

“If you want to correspond with the enemy, that’s alright with us. Just be careful, yeah?” Ron gave Harry a kind, encouraging smile, which only deepened at the sight of three pints hovering over to their table. They landed with the classic, comforting sound of thick glass meeting wood, something Harry greatly looked forward to at the end of each week.

“Thanks for the permission,” Harry said, half bitter, half appreciative. He knew Ron had more reason to hate the Malfoys than he or Hermione did, and for Ron to tell him that it was alright that he was writing to the Malfoy matriarch was Ron’s way of supporting him, his own feelings aside.

“I still think this is a terrible idea,” Hermione added, taking a sip of her pint. “But what do I know? Anyway, how was Luna’s party?” It was time for a subject change, she decided. It wasn’t as if anything she said would change Harry’s mind.

“Great, as usual,” Harry replied. “She brought five brothers from Tarapoto so they could see a bit of England in return for letting her stay with them. They didn’t speak a lick of English, but Luna taught me this excellent translation charm and, god, those blokes were hilarious once I figured out what they were saying. Cisco was probably the funniest out of the group, though.”

“Wish I could’ve gone,” Ron lamented, sneaking accusatory glances toward Hermione. “Apparently yard work is more important than keeping up with friends from school.”

Hermione scoffed and said, “It is when I’ve been asking you to do it for weeks, and you continuously put it off. I work too long of hours to keep these things in check, Ron.”

“I know, I know. Still would’ve been nice.”

“Oh, please, she’ll be back in a month or two and she’ll throw yet another party, one that you can go to. She does every time she comes back. It’s a wonder that girl ever finds time to write.”

“She does most of her writing while she’s traveling,” Harry said. “I think coming home is like taking a vacation from work, although from the sounds of it, a lot of her work is like a vacation.” 

Harry could never imagine living his life the way Luna did, constantly traveling and looking for elusive, rare creatures to write about, only coming home for a week at most and taking off again. She loved her job, of course, and had loads of stories to tell every time she visited home, but Harry had a feeling there was more to her career choice than simply following in her father’s footsteps and keeping the _Quibbler_ up and running. He thought maybe she couldn’t stand to be in England for long due to trauma. Some of the things she’d said about being home had suggested as much, and Harry noticed that she never traveled anywhere near Scotland anymore. He’d asked her why, once, and she’d got this withdrawn look in her pale blue eyes, but she hadn’t given much of a reason. 

“Speaking of writing,” Harry piped up, interrupting the quiet conversation Ron and Hermione had got into during his speculative silence. “When I told Luna I was writing to Mrs. Malfoy, she seemed to think it was a very good idea. Did you know she writes to Malfoy? As in, Draco Malfoy?”

“But he kept her prisoner in his house!” Hermione’s outrage was immediate and passionate.

“No, Lucius and Voldemort kept her prisoner in Malfoy Manor,” Harry corrected. “And apparently Malfoy was the only person who ever came down to the cellars to visit with the prisoners. He would even sneak them extra food and water, when he could. Luna said it if weren’t for Malfoy she would’ve… Well, never mind, that’s not exactly pub talk.”

“No, tell us,” Hermione said, her voice hinting at her interest. “She would’ve what?”

“This doesn’t make Malfoy a saint, or anything,” Harry explained, just in case his friends got the— very wrong— impression that Harry didn’t hate Malfoy, “but Luna said Malfoy begged, er, menstruation things for Luna, from his mum. If he hadn’t, she would’ve bled all over herself.” He shuddered, picturing how humiliating that would be. 

Ron made a disgusted face and said, “Well, I suppose that’s something to be thankful for, eh? I guess in that case it makes sense she’d keep in contact with him. Sort of.” 

“Not that I like him any more after hearing that,” Hermione said slowly, still letting this new information sink in, “but that was rather sweet of him, all things considered. Who knew he was capable of kindness?” she laughed and cut herself off to order them three more pints as another barmaid went past their table.

“I’ve got this weird suspicion that he’s not really as horrible as he seems,” Ron said, and Harry couldn’t stop the look of surprise that shaped his expression. He glanced at Hermione and saw she had a similar look on her face. “Well, think about it. You said he was crying in the bathroom sixth year, right?”

“Yeah, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, I’ve never seen another Death Eater cry, have you?”

Hermione could see the look of confusion forming and deepening on Harry’s face and decided to take over. “I think what he means to say is that most Death Eaters don’t typically feel much remorse for the path they’ve chosen, Snape being one possible exception to that. Thanks to the trials, we now know that Malfoy deeply regretted getting the Dark Mark. Not that he had much choice in the matter, if what he said was true, and the Wizengamot seemed to think so.”

“Okay,” Harry drawled, still not understanding. “And? How does that make him less horrible than we think he is?”

“It might not,” Hermione said, shrugging. “Care to explain that one, Ronniekins?”

“It’s like—” Ron paused to consider his words carefully, making sure they made sense entirely before putting them out in the open for his wife to dissect. “Well, he acted like a giant prat, and he probably is one most of the time, but if he was a prat all the time, why would Luna still keep in contact with him? Why would he feel badly about getting the Mark? Why would he have said he wasn’t sure you were Harry Potter when the snatchers caught you? I just think that people are multifaceted, right? So maybe he’s a prat to us, and to most of our friends, but I think it’s mostly a front.”

Harry had no idea what to say to that, but it only took Hermione a moment of thought before she smiled proudly and said, “I think you make an excellent point. I guess I’d never thought of him that way.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Harry said, having decided that maybe Ron was right, but he’d need proof before he stopped thinking of Malfoy as one of the worst people he’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. 

“It’s just a theory, anyway,” Ron said with a shrug. It was no skin off his back if Harry didn’t believe him. It wasn’t as if Malfoy was a huge part of their lives.

“So,” Hermione said, changing the subject again, a gleam of mischievousness in her eyes. “You mentioned that Cisco was the funniest of the Peruvians. Care to offer details?” 

Against his will, Harry’s cheeks heated and coloured, just as Hermione had known they would. “What do you mean?” Playing dumb never worked with Hermione, unless she was humouring him, and she wasn’t tonight. 

“Oh come on, you only ever mention Luna’s guests by name if they pique your interest,” Hermione giggled playfully. “This isn’t the first time, Harry.”

“Yeah, mate, what was so hilarious about him?” Ron asked, back at it with his elbow in Harry’s ribs.

“Alright, yes, I slept with him, is that what you want to hear?” He couldn’t understand why his friends cared so much about his sex life. It wasn’t as if he asked them about theirs. 

“Was he good?” Hermione asked, curiosity mixed with excitement in her tone. 

“Yes, very. And now he’s gone back to Peru with his brothers, so no, we won’t be doing it again any time soon, if ever.”

“Why do all your partners have to be from random parts of the world? It’s almost as if Luna brings people back just so you have a group of people to pick from.”

“No, she brings them back as a thank you and so that they can experience a different part of the world from where they live. It’s my fault I always end up sleeping with one of them.”

“Right, but isn’t it funny how she always brings men back?” Ron wondered. “I don’t remember her ever bringing back women.”

“That’s because she likes to leave her partners back in their country, lest they get too attached,” Harry explained, his lips twitching in threat of a grin.

“That makes sense, with how often she travels, and how seldom she goes back to the places she’s already been,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “I just wish you’d, I don’t know, pick a partner that lives in the same country as you, seeing as how you don’t travel like she does. You’ve probably slept with people from every continent on the planet, by now, and yet you’ve never had an actual boyfriend.”

“I’m just not ready to settle down,” Harry said, feeling a bit defensive. “Nobody here is interesting enough to see long term. They’re so… boring. And if they aren’t boring, they only want me because I’m Harry Potter. It’s so much easier to have sex with people knowing I’ll probably never have to see them again. Not to mention, a lot of them don’t know who I am the way people here do, so they don’t fanboy like people do here.”

Hermione sighed, shaking her head disapprovingly, but Ron spoke first. “If he wants to sleep with blokes from other countries, let him. He’s right about his little fan club here in Britain. I couldn’t do it if I were you, mate.”

“Thank you for understanding, unlike some people.” Harry directed a half-serious glare at Hermione, who simply rolled her eyes. “Now, can we please stop talking about my sex life?”

 

oOo

 

_Mr. Potter, you’re very welcome. I’m surprised at your last letter; it’s much more eloquent than the first. Perhaps you don’t require a writing class after all. I suppose your lack of skill only came from the palpable awkwardness of the situation. Ah, well, that’s over and done with._

_I must say I was rather taken aback when you chose the position of Auror. I had figured that after all the mess and trauma of the war you would want to stay far away from any sort of high-risk criminal justice work, although I don’t doubt that you excelled in the field. You’ve always had a knack for getting in and out of trouble and the Ministry was beyond thrilled to have the man who took down the Dark Lord on their team. The papers were relentless in reporting your appointment._

_I personally have been actively avoiding anything remotely similar to your career choice. Not that I was ever particularly active in the goings-on of the Dark Lord’s followers. Their activities were too disgusting and violent for my tastes and I was better off supporting my husband in other ways. Not that I am proud of my role in all of that. I loathe where I stood, but what other choice did I have? At the time, it didn’t seem I had any. Hindsight is, as they say, 20/20._

_As for advice on avoiding the press, I’m afraid the only tip I can offer is to disgrace your name. While most families who were involved with Death Eaters, or who were Death Eaters, have sometimes been reported on in the news, you’ll notice it’s reserved for when they’ve further disgraced themselves. The press isn’t interested in the regular activities of people who were on the wrong side of things, as they don’t want to bring attention to the fact that we are just humans like the rest of them, nor do they want to seem supportive of us, lest they appear to align with our past (and for some, current) views. Even if I or anyone else who supported the Dark Lord did something heroic or charitable, it would be unlikely for the public to take interest because of all the horrible things we did. It could appear like we are doing it to win back the favor of the people rather than out of the goodness of our hearts. I suppose we deserve it, though. The best I can do in my position is try to live a more peaceful life and hope that someday I may be able to redeem myself. Unfortunately, I doubt Lucius can ever hope to achieve that dream, but there may be a possibility for Draco. We shall see how it all washes out._

_On the subject of Draco, your last letter reminded me greatly of him. He, too, seems to be at a loss as to what he should pursue with his career. Though, in his case, it isn’t for a lack of interest, it’s a lack of opportunity. Most places refuse to hire him due to his past and the Mark on his arm. He attended university abroad in order to advance his education, and while he is now equipped with a Mastery of General Magical Knowledge he can’t seem to find employment anywhere. I understand why businesses are hesitant to hire someone with the Dark Mark, truly I do, but it saddens me deeply to see my son struggle this way. I can only hope that, with time, things will change._

_See, you are not the only one who is capable of writing dull letters full of self-pity. It is a thing everyone partakes in, feeling sorry for ourselves. It’s simply important that we don’t stay in such a frame of mind. Perhaps the offer I’m about to make is unwanted, but I thought to make it anyway: if you need an outlet, someone to discuss the way you feel with, I am available. I’m sure your friends to a wonderful job of this already, but there are some things we cannot even tell our closest friends, and sometimes it’s easier to discuss matters of the heart with someone we know a little less._

_May all be well. N.M_

A small smile stretched Harry’s lips as Mrs. Malfoy’s letter came to a close. He wasn’t sure he’d accept her offer, but he appreciated it nonetheless. As it was, he had plenty of people to confide in, people he knew he could trust, so he didn’t really need her added to the list. Still, it was the thought behind her offer that mattered to Harry. Wasting no time, he began writing out his response. He noticed that both of their letters were getting longer each time, and he wondered it it would be easier to communicate in person. Then he shrugged off that thought, because that was a bit silly, wasn’t it? He wasn’t about to invite her over for tea, and he highly doubted she would invite him. No, writing letters was good enough.

_Mrs. Malfoy, please call me Harry. You’re probably right about the awkwardness. I struggle a lot to form a proper sentence when I’m nervous or uncomfortable, and it’s really frustrating; not only does it make me look stupid, but it causes people to take me less seriously. I don’t know if a writing class could help with that, honestly._

_So, you’ve been avoiding violence and danger, but what have you kept busy with? Do you knit, or crochet, or sew? Maybe it’s sexist of me to ask that, but it seems like the majority of women in my life over 40 do those things a lot. Mrs. Weasley knits everyone a jumper every year for Christmas. The first jumper she sent me was the first piece of clothing I had that fit me properly, aside from my school robes. Knitting seems like such a useful skill to have, though I’ve never had the patience or desire to sit down and learn it._

_I have mixed feelings about certain parts of your letter. On the one hand, I sort of agree with the newspapers for not reporting every good thing the ex-Death Eaters have done since the war, but I don’t agree with their reasonings, if what you say is true. I’ve never appreciated how history likes to paint the villains as some sort of monster. It takes something real and terrifying and turns it into something like a fantasy, something that could never happen in real life. I think it’s important that everyone be aware that people who do bad things are just that: people. That way we are more conscious of what people are capable of and aren’t taken so off guard when the people we know to bad things. Does that make sense? I’m probably rambling._

_The other part of your letter I have mixed feelings on is, well, your son and his inability to find work. Why does he even need to work? You Malfoys are richer than god. (That’s a muggle idiom, sorry if it’s unfamiliar to you.) Couldn’t he live happily and comfortably ten lifetimes over without working? Well, whatever his reasons for wanting to work, it doesn’t seem very fair to me that he’s not being allowed to. If he’s qualified and he hasn’t proven himself unworthy of the position he’s asking for, I don’t see why he shouldn’t be hired. Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s discrimination. Aren’t there laws against that? There should be, if there aren’t. Everyone should be allowed to work, if they’d like to. Except maybe children, because they’re easily exploited._

_But even if it isn’t fair, I have my biases and I personally wouldn’t want to see him at, say, the local apothecary, or something. Then again, I don’t think too many people have grudges against him, so maybe I’m the one of the only ones who feels that way, and in that case my opinion doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m torn. If I put myself in his shoes, which I’m really terrible at, then I’d probably be depressed and feel trapped, but also I would probably end up giving up looking for work and do something else. Like travelling, maybe, or starting my own business. If I were Malfoy, I could certainly afford to do those things. Why would he want to work for someone else anyway, when he could easily work for himself? He could pick something he’s really good at and make a profit from selling it. Or, if he’s not good at anything, he could learn something new and make that his business. He was pretty decent at potions in school, as I remember it. He could start a potions business, or something. Maybe he could make affordable pain potions, or supply some hospitals around Europe. Anyway, that’s up to him, but those are some ideas. If you tell him what I said, don’t tell him I told you, or he’ll disregard it all immediately, I’m sure. He probably still hates me, too._

_I really appreciate your offer to be a confidant for me, Mrs. Malfoy, and I’d like to extend that offer back to you as well. Do you have very many friends to talk to about ‘matters of the heart,’ as you called them? Oh, that’s probably a rude question. I don’t mean it in a rude way, please don’t take it that way. I’m sure you’ve got friends._

_Looking forward to your reply. Harry._


	2. Chapter 2

Sweat dripped in streams down Harry’s face and neck, and he felt as though his arms were going to dislocate if he pulled any harder. Neville was nearing the point of giving up and deciding to just let the oversized weed stay put. It obviously wanted to. 

“Alright,” Neville said, panting to catch his breath, “one more big pull, and if it doesn’t come out this time we’ll just have to let her be.”

Harry nodded and waited as Neville counted to three, then pulled as hard as he could. Both men grunted as they put all the force of their muscles into the removal of this stubborn, giant weed. The veins in Harry’s arms looked near to bursting in his effort, and he couldn’t feel the weed budging at all. This wasn’t going to work.

Simultaneously, both men fell to the ground, letting go of the weed, which sprung back up to its full height of 4 meters high as though nothing had happened, as though it had full permission to be such a proud, annoying plant. 

“Neville, I don’t think this thing is going to be pulled out,” Harry said slowly, trying to catch his breath and gazing up at the huge invasive beast. 

“I’ve tried everything else,” Neville panted, irritated at the stubbornness of the weed. “It won’t be cut, no spells will damage it, or loosen the soil… I don’t know what to do!” 

“Maybe you should just leave it? It doesn’t seem to be doing much harm.”

“That’s because it’s a baby,” Neville scoffed. Harry hadn’t paid any attention in herbology, clearly. 

“This overgrown nuisance is a baby?” Harry sputtered, unable to believe that such a towering thing could be an infant of any sort.

“Yep. A European towering Jack Bean. And if I just leave it it’ll eventually take up the whole garden, hardening the soil as the roots spread out, just like it has in this small spot here.”

“Wait, a Jack bean? Like Jack and the Beanstalk?”

“The very same. Only the wizarding version of the tale is a bit darker than the one you might know.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry’s interest was piqued now.

“Yeah, Jack Spriggins was a real guy. Climbed up one of these to a giant camp in the mountain. He was going to negotiate a deal with them where they could have half of his cattle every year if they left the rest of his farm alone. The poor bloke ended up being gruesomely torn apart by the giants and eaten.”

“Blimey, it’s like if the story was written by the Grimm brothers.” Neville gave him a confused look before turning back to the plant.

“Thing is, regular Jack beans aren’t usually this big. Not really magical, either. Muggles use them for animal feed in Brazil. The towering ones can grow up to five-hundred meters high, though, and thirty in diameter. Imagine what that’ll be like once the pods start falling.” Harry let out a low whistle and Neville continued. “See my problem now?”

“Er, yeah, that could be a _giant_ issue.” Harry smirked but Neville groaned.

“Was that really necessary?”

“You love it, don’t lie.”

“You’re worse than Ginny,” Neville said, shaking his head fondly. “So, I don’t mean to get into your business, but Ginny said that Ron said that you’ve been writing to Narcissa Malfoy and I… Why, exactly, are you doing that?” He wasn’t upset that Harry was writing to a Malfoy, but very confused and somewhat alarmed. No matter how he thought about it, he couldn’t make sense of Harry’s choice to converse with the Malfoy matriarch. Mummy issues, maybe? He couldn’t understand. 

“I’m doing it because—” Harry paused, unable to think of a reason. Why _was_ he writing back and forth with Mrs. Malfoy? “I guess now it’s because she’s become something like a friend. Originally it was to thank her for saving my life, but then she wrote back and now it’s been months. She invited me over for dinner this weekend, actually. I’m not sure I should go, since she warned me Malfoy will be there. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t even hesitate.”

Neville blinked several times, slowly. “She’s your friend,” he repeated, just to be sure. 

“More of an acquaintance at this point, but I’m not against the idea of forming a friendship with her.” Harry paused. “Man, that sounds strange, even to me.”

“It really does. Who would have thought? I’m not going to lie, Harry, I’m a little worried. She _was_ involved with Voldemort. You never know, she might be trying to get close to you for shifty reasons.” Neville’s brow creased in concern, but his tone was kind instead of accusatory, something that Harry greatly appreciated. “I know you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, though. Just be careful.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Nothing has been fishy so far, other than maybe the fact that she’s opened up to me so quickly. I really wasn’t expecting that. To be honest, I didn’t think she would reply to my first letter. I always had this impression that she was a snobby cow, but there’s a lot more to her than that. Mind you, she still holds on to some problematic views, but she seems to be trying really hard to let go of all that.”

“If you say so.” Neville wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t think it his place to say so. He really did think Harry was usually wise enough to know if he was getting himself into something dangerous. Neville’s main fear wasn’t necessarily that Harry wouldn’t be aware of the danger, though; Harry was typically aware of the danger he was in, he just didn’t know when to back out rather than running headlong into it. If Narcissa Malfoy was up to something, Neville didn’t think Harry would try and avoid the trouble she was causing, especially if Malfoy was involved. Harry had little-to-no self control when it came to that ferret-faced arse.

“I know you don’t believe me,” Harry said, smiling softly. “It’s fine. I probably wouldn’t believe me either. It’s all really weird. But that’s alright. I needed a change of pace anyway. I’m lucky that she’s been the way she has. It could have gone badly in so many ways.” Harry looked down at the ground, eyeing the roots of the Jack Bean. 

Following Harry’s eyes, Neville said, “Well, now I have to figure out what the hell to do with this thing before it takes over the entire greenhouse.” He sighed and ran his hands over his face, spreading peat moss and soil all over it and mixing it with his sweat. 

“Er, Neville, you’ve got a bit of something…” Harry pointed to his own chin and Neville rubbed the same spot on his face. Harry laughed and said, “Got it.”

 

oOo

 

What was he even supposed to wear to dinner at Malfoy Manor? Even Harry’s finest robes felt too casual, and his hair was absolutely not working with him that evening. Not that it ever did, but it seemed particularly bad as he tried desperately to comb it down. Giving in, he jogged back to his wardrobe, begging silently for it to produce something fancier than he owned. 

“I shouldn’t even be nervous,” he chided himself, grabbing out his dress robes again. They’d have to do. 

When he accepted Mrs. Malfoy’s invitation to dinner he hadn’t thought twice about what he’d wear, and now it was coming back to bite him. As he donned his outdated, shit brown, pinstriped robes, his mind kept wandering to Malfoy. Harry wondered if he’d be there, and knew that he most likely would. Lucius Malfoy was in Azkaban, still, so Harry had that to be thankful for, at least. He didn’t think he could handle an evening surrounded by all three Malfoys. Already he was nervous and there would only be two other people there. Surely, if things went badly, he could protect himself, but that didn’t make him feel any better about the prospect of forcing conversation with Malfoy. What would they even talk about? Nothing, that’s what. Harry decided then and there that he would focus all of his attention on Mrs. Malfoy, regardless of the sort of things Malfoy would say. Harry was sure Malfoy would say something, as he’d never been especially good at keeping his stupid mouth shut. 

Taking a deep breath, Harry looked himself up and down in the full length mirror on the back of the wardrobe door.

“Well done!” the mirror quipped, “The flies will be swarming in no time at all!” Harry regretted purchasing a wizarding mirror instead of just sticking with a muggle one. He had hoped to receive some good fashion advice, as he had never been able to keep up with trends, but apparently he always looked horrible and he would do well to not be reminded of it fifty times a day.

“Yeah, fuck off,” he muttered, smoothing his robes and making to Apparate to Wiltshire. 

He’d forgotten how large everything was at Malfoy Manor. Standing in front of the golden gates, he felt like a tiny insect. The manor itself loomed far up the drive, imposing and a bit formidable. Remembering Mrs. Malfoy’s instructions, Harry placed his hand on the gate and held it there. Apparently, this would alert the residents of his presence and who he was. A few moments passed and finally the gate swung slowly open, admitting him to the property. 

Casting an anti-perspiration charm, Harry made his way up the long gravel drive and up to the grand front doors. Before he even reached the top step of the marble porch, the door was opening, revealing a glamorous looking entryway and a shy house elf.

“Mistress is expecting you, Harry Potter, sir,” the small elf said, not making eye contact. Harry reminded himself that he would of course be famous among the house elves as well, and was suddenly very self conscious. The elf led him across the foyer and into a long, elegant hallway, turning at the second arched entry into a lavish dining room, where Mrs. Malfoy was already seated. Not knowing proper etiquette for formal dinners, Harry just stood there, taking in his expensive surroundings.

“Ah, Harry, you’re here.” She stood, smiling angelically, and crossed the room to embrace him, taking him utterly by surprise. Stepping back she said, “Feel free to have a seat anywhere. Draco will be in shortly.”

“I, erm… yeah.” God, could he get more awkward? Deciding that he didn’t want to answer that, he looked for an ideal place to sit. The table was so long and with so many chairs, it made it a more difficult decision than he had expected. He didn’t want to sit too far away from Mrs. Malfoy, but he was sure that her son would be likely to sit next to her and he didn’t want to be too near him, either.

“Well? We could just eat our meal standing, I suppose.” Mrs. Malfoy chuckled, sensing Harry’s unease. Harry flushed and took the seat across from her. He was just going to have to deal with Malfoy’s proximity. Part of him wondered whether Mrs. Malfoy had told Draco that Harry would be attending dinner and that’s why he had yet to appear. “Oh, and I wanted to request that you refer to Draco by his first name while you’re here. It makes it much less confusing, as we’re both technically ‘Malfoy.’” 

“Right, yeah. I can do that.” He didn’t want to, but he would. For her. If he had to. 

“I appreciate it, darling.” She looked to the door, wondering where on earth her son had gotten to. Dinner was the same time every night, and he wasn’t aware that Harry was here, so there was no reason he should be late.

“So, er, how have you been since your last letter?” Harry asked, trying to spark up some sort of conversation. 

“Very well, thank you. I received a less-than-pleasant letter from Lucius, but I suppose that’s what comes from being in Azkaban. It’s a rather less-than-pleasant place. The short time I was there during the trials was enough incentive to keep me away from there for the remainder of my life.”

“What was so bad about the letter? Not to be nosey,” Harry added hastily. 

“Oh, nothing. He’s just become bitter in recent times.” Her face darkened a little, but she quickly masked the expression with a cheery facade. It wouldn’t do for Harry to find out that Lucius had been ranting furiously about her newly budding friendship with the man. “But anyway, how was your visit with Mr. Longbottom?” 

Harry was just starting to go into the tedious extractions of the rapidly growing Jack bean when a voice sounded from down the hall and Harry’s whole body went tense.

“—so sorry, mother! I got caught up in my reading. Do we have company? I thought I heard—” As Draco approached the doorway, he faltered. His eyes connected with Harry’s and he gaped. He took in Harry’s uncomfortable expression, and even with the slightly disturbed twist of his lips Draco found he was still just as appealing as he had been the last time Draco had seen him during the trials. Without meaning to he sputtered, “Fuck, he’s still h—” 

“That’s quite alright, darling,” Mrs. Malfoy said, standing up and beckoning her son over with a sweeping gesture of her hand. “Although, I would much appreciate it if you would watch your language in front of guests.”

“I—” Draco was still gawking, looking back and forth between his mother and Harry with his mouth slightly open. Harry had thankfully had the decency to look down. He sincerely hoped that Harry had not surmised what he was about to finish with, although he had always been rather oblivious.

So Draco _had_ been avoiding him, Harry decided. Harry was quite keen on letting him, as he didn’t want to see him either, but it seemed the situation was now unavoidable.

“Well, boys,” Mrs. Malfoy said, breaking the tangibly tense silence, “I hardly think it’s necessary to introduce the two of you. Draco, I’ve invited Harry to dinner.”

“That’s rather evident,” Draco spat. He usually didn’t snap at his mother, but he would’ve appreciated a warning. He’d thought she cared about him enough to reduce his risk of heart attack. Apparently not. “‘Harry,’ mother? You two are on a first name basis, now? How charming.”

“I think so, too,” she replied pleasantly, disregarding her son’s sarcasm entirely. “I find it very gracious of Harry to have joined us. Have a seat, Draco.” Draco hesitated, then begrudgingly took a chair beside his mother.

“What on earth is that supposed to be, Potter?” Draco had only just noticed the horrible excuse for clothing that Harry was wearing.

“What’s what?” Harry was genuinely baffled.

“That atrocious excuse for an outfit. I think I might be sick if I stare at it for too long.”

“Are you just going to let him…” Harry trailed off, realising that he was in the Malfoy’s home and Mrs. Malfoy probably _wouldn’t_ stop her son from being a right prick.

“Then stop staring, Draco. I know he’s handsome, but it’s impolite.” Draco turned from ghastly white to a violent shade of pink in a matter of seconds. Meanwhile, Mrs. Malfoy grinned in an almost feline way. Harry could feel his neck growing warm and quickly began busying himself with looking at his reflection in one of the dinner spoons. This was a mistake, as he was now forced to look at his own reddening face. At least the spoons couldn’t speak, unlike his mirror.

“Merlin, mother!”

“It’s, er, getting a bit warm in here,” Harry said, pulling at his collar in discomfort.

“Do feel free to take off your robes, if you’ve worn something beneath them,” Mrs. Malfoy said sweetly. “These summer months make formal wear nearly impossible, don’t they?”

Not bothering to respond verbally, Harry removed his ‘atrocious excuse for an outfit,’ and immediately felt more at ease in just a band t-shirt and denims. Draco, on the other hand, became more uncomfortable. His mouth dried as he took in Harry’s biceps, which had grown significantly since their time at Hogwarts. To his amazement, he couldn’t even formulate a proper insult that might force Harry to re-clothe himself. Not that he really wanted Harry to do that; those robes truly were disgusting and should be burned post haste.

“Draco, you’re staring again,” Mrs. Malfoy pointed out. “Goodness! I haven’t even brought the food out, how rude of me.” She snapped her fingers and an elf appeared at her side. “Lenke, please bring out the first course.” 

The elf nodded and disappeared. A moment later, all three plates were filled with a gorgeous looking meal of beef and broccoli. The room went temporarily quiet as they ate, something Harry greatly appreciated. It was a nice reprieve from the discomfort of Draco’s insults and Mrs. Malfoy’s mortifying quips. Of course, that couldn’t last long.

“So, Draco, what were you reading that was so interesting it kept you from dinner?” Mrs. Malfoy asked pleasantly. 

Two more courses went by in a similar fashion to the beginning of the meal. Harry tried to make conversation, but found himself feeling too out of place to do so successfully. Awkward silences seemed to invade at every chance they could get, which only made him feel more uncomfortable. Somehow Harry kept his cool as Draco threw a snappy insult into the conversation whenever the opportunity arose, and Mrs. Malfoy did her best to keep the peace, while simultaneously teasing her son in the strangest ways. Well, Harry thought her teasing strange, as it always had to do with him and how attractive he was. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was attracted to him. Harry hardly thought that was the case and made a mental note to tell Hermione about this; maybe she’d understand better than he did. 

Soon enough the meal was over, and it was about damn time, in both Harry and Draco’s opinions. The plates magically cleared themselves after pudding and the three dinner companions leaned back in their chairs, on the verge of too full.

“That was incredible,” Harry said to Mrs. Malfoy, avoiding Draco’s eye entirely. “Thank you so much for inviting me. I don’t think I’ve ever had food that good. Er, don’t tell Mrs. Weasley I said that, please.”

“They can afford to serve food at the Weasleys’?” Draco muttered just loudly enough for everyone to hear, and waited for Harry’s response. He was a bit surprised that Harry wasn’t slinging barbs right back at him; it had always been that way in school, hadn’t it? Draco would egg Harry on, they’d fight, and Draco would get his daily dose of Harry’s attention. That was how things were _supposed_ to work, at least. Now, it seemed, Harry was intent on ignoring Draco, and it irritated him to no end. All evening he’d been trying to get Harry riled up, to no avail. Maybe his mother was right, and she and Harry really were becoming friends. She’d mentioned wanting to ‘mother’ him, of all things. She seemed to think Harry had lacked mothering in his lifetime, though Draco couldn’t imagine why. Harry had grown up with an aunt who probably spoiled the ever-living-shit out of him, and the Weasleys’ mother. Everyone knew Mrs. Weasley considered Harry to be one of her own. As if Harry needed yet another motherly figure to mollycoddle him. It was clear to Draco that she was officially Janus Thickey Ward-ready. Regardless, Draco couldn’t think of another reason for Harry to be acting so well-mannered. It had to be an effort to impress Narcissa. 

“Really, Draco,” his mother chided. “I thought we were past comparing financial statuses with other wizarding families. However rich in gold we may be, our reputation is one of the poorest. You’d do well to remember that, lest you make an even bigger outcast of yourself.” Her eyes almost unnoticeably flickered to Harry, just to solidify her point. Draco flinched back in his chair at his mother’s words. That one stung, it did. He decided he’d just keep his mouth shut until Harry had gone. 

“It-it’s fine,” Harry stuttered, wishing his mouth worked properly at times like these. “This is how things have always been between us. I didn’t expect anything to suddenly change after years of mutual hatred.” Harry’s eyes met Draco’s and he put all of the silent loathing he could into his gaze, hoping Draco could feel just how badly he wanted to shut him up permanently. He’d kept his mouth shut all through dinner, had bitten his tongue until he’d tasted blood at Draco’s comment about the Weasleys. What he couldn’t say, he put into his stare. 

Draco smiled a little, satisfied smile in response to Harry’s glare. There it was, that unbridled passion, right there in Harry’s green eyes. He did still have that fierceness in him, and Draco was right that he’d only been behaving himself for Mrs. Malfoy’s benefit. Maybe, if Draco kept pushing, Harry would snap and release a bit of it. Maybe it was fucked up, how Draco craved that negative attention from Harry, but it wasn’t his fault that Harry was at his sexiest when he was angry enough to kill. 

“I think I’d better go,” Harry said, standing abruptly. His hands were beginning to shake and he didn’t think he could hold back against Draco much longer. That pleased smile Draco used as his retort to Harry’s glare was enough to make his blood boil.

“Yes, it is getting late, isn’t it?” Mrs. Malfoy asked. She stood as well and hooked her arm through Harry’s, leading him to the archway. “Thank you for joining us, Harry darling. I do hope you’ll do so again in the future.”

“Ah, sure,” he agreed, without really meaning to. He didn’t seem to be able to tell Mrs. Malfoy no, just like he struggled to tell Mrs. Weasley no. 

“If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to stop by. You don’t even have to ask first. You are welcome here, Harry, though I must apologise for my son’s behaviour; he must have made you feel rather unwelcome. I’ll have to discuss that with him once you’ve gone,” she said, shooting a glance over her shoulder.

“It’s fine, really,” Harry said. “I-I’ll write soon.” 

Mrs. Malfoy smiled and released his arm, allowing him to leave the room. He didn’t make it far when he heard Draco start complaining.

“Why on earth would you invite him _here_ , of all places? Couldn't you go out for dinner? You know how I feel about him…” 

Harry tuned out whatever it was Draco was going to say next and picked up his speed. If he didn’t leave now, there was no telling what he might do.

 

oOo

 

Hermione watched silently as Harry described his dinner with the Malfoys. He was passionately retelling all of Malfoy’s insults and the way Narcissa had responded, her teasing revolving around Harry’s appearance. Harry left out Malfoy’s responses to these jibes, but Hermione could easily guess. 

“ _He’s_ attracted to you. Mrs. Malfoy isn’t,” Hermione said, as though it were the most obvious thing, which she happened to think it was. By the confusion moulding Harry’s face, she could tell he didn’t agree.

“What? No, he hates me! He made that clear all bloody evening,” Harry complained. 

“Harry, you’re looking at this from your very biased perspective. Think about it: Mrs. Malfoy is happily married, as far as we know, and everytime Draco insults you she turned it around on him in a way that makes it seem as though he is attracted to you. How else am I meant to interpret that?”

“No, no, you’re getting it wrong.” Harry ran a hand through his curls in frustration, probably messing them up even further. “She would say things like, ‘Stop staring, I know he’s handsome, but it’s impolite.’ As in, she thought I was handsome. Not Malfoy.” Harry felt as though he was explaining ancient runes to a toddler, and oddly enough, Hermione felt the same way as she responded.

“No, _you’re_ getting it wrong— listen, did Malfoy blush after she said things like that?”

“I don’t know, sort of? Mostly he just stopped talking and looked down at his food. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Christ, how dense can you possibly be?” Hermione sighed and begged whichever gods were listening to make Harry less stubborn. “Why would he react that way if he wasn’t attracted to you? He was embarrassed that she was calling him out on staring at you _because he thinks you’re fit_. Not to mention, it’s completely possible to hate someone and find them physically appealing.” 

Pausing, Harry considered Hermione’s take on things. It seemed far-fetched, but the way Hermione said it made it seem almost possible. 

“Well, maybe…”

“Honestly, don’t you think Malfoy’s attractive? Take his meanness out of the picture and look back on your dinner with them.”

Shaking his head in annoyance, Harry followed Hermione’s directions. He put the entire evening on mute in his brain and simply thought on the bits of his memories where Malfoy took the focus. His white-blond hair was rather smooth, and his lips were sort of plush and soft looking. His jawline was sharp, yet soft, depending on how the light hit his face. His eyes were surprisingly playful, especially when paired with his smirk. And when Malfoy had walked into the room, apparently not expecting Harry to still be there, his expression had been open and vulnerable, even a bit worried, a look Harry didn’t think he’d seen on Malfoy’s face before. His robes were form fitting, while still leaving room for imagination, and the body beneath the robes was clearly fit. Maybe Malfoy wasn’t an ugly git after all. Still a git, just not an ugly one.

“Alright, point taken,” Harry said, his tone defeated. “I still hate him.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, though,” Hermione replied, her self satisfaction evident in her voice and the tilt of her lips. “I think he likes you, but doesn’t know how to show it, so he resorts to being cruel. Just like in school.”

Something clicked in Harry’s mind and he said, “You know, as I was leaving he did say something like, ‘why would you invite him here, you know how I feel about him.’ At the time I thought he was just talking about how much he hates me, but now…”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. There’s no way to know for sure, but I’ve speculated over the years that maybe he didn’t hate you as much as he tried to make it seem.”

“How long have you speculated about this?” Harry felt almost betrayed, as this was the first he was hearing about any ‘speculation.’

“Oh, first year. Back then it was just a feeling, but as the years went by his behaviour sort of solidified my feeling.”

Harry shook his head and tried to let this sink in. So it was possible that Malfoy had, what, an interest in him? A crush? Merlin, that sounded juvenile as all hell. 

“Imagine how he would’ve been if you’d come out during school,” Hermione giggled. “Oh, he would’ve been all over you, I can see it now.”

“Please stop,” Harry groaned. “Why is it that, lately, every time I visit you over lunch you find a new way to humiliate me?”

“As your best friend, I believe that’s my job. So, when are you going back over to the Manor?” Her brown eyes shone with interest. 

“Er, well, I haven’t decided that I am going back, yet.”

“Come on, Harry, we have a theory to prove, you have to go back. Not to mention, from the sounds of it, Mrs. Malfoy would be heartbroken if you didn’t.”

“Excuse me? Wasn’t it you who said this was a terrible idea?” She sure did change her tune rather quickly when her own motives were involved.

“Yes, but that was before I found out Malfoy’s in love with you,” she teased. At least, Harry hoped she was teasing. 

“You truly are the absolute worst.”

“And you love me for it.”

 

oOo

 

When Harry arrived home from George’s shop, it was to find Mrs. Malfoy’s signature roll of parchment waiting for him on his kitchen table. He’d been planning on doing some chores when he got home, but they could wait long enough to read her letter and write up a response, couldn’t they?

_Harry, it was lovely having you over for dinner. You’ve grown into quite a spectacular, intelligent, disciplined young man, haven’t you? It amazed me that you were able to keep yourself in check while my son highlighted his less acceptable behaviour. I do apologise for that, by the way. Sometimes he just doesn’t know when to call it quits, and he winds up painting for others a rather nasty picture of who he is. You may not be inclined to believe me, and I can’t say that I blame you, but he really is a sweet, caring man. For some reason, when it comes to you, he is incapable of displaying that side of himself. Perhaps, with more exposure to you, he’ll become used enough to your presence that he is able to show his true colours._

_Maybe this is too soon, but I’d like to invite you over again this coming Thursday for our family game night. It’s not the same without Lucius, and many of our games require more than two people to enjoy properly. A third person would make things much more pleasant, and I can’t imagine who I’d like to invite more than you. If you’ll accept, we’ll start at 6 pm sharp, though you’re welcome to arrive earlier, if you’d like. We’ll provide the snacks and beverages, so don’t feed yourself before you come._

_I look forward to your confirmation. N.M_

Well, she certainly made it difficult to refuse, didn’t she? Harry sighed and summoned a roll of parchment, ink, and a quill to write out his acceptance of her invitation. Then, once he’d sent it off, he began washing the dishes and wondering how game night with the Malfoys would go over. Less-than-swimmingly, he assumed, but he’d been proven wrong in the past, and was open to being proven wrong this time. He hoped it wouldn’t be terrible, and that Malfoy could stop being a prat long enough for Ron’s theory to be more likely. Harry still wasn’t sure how he felt about the prospect of Hermione’s theory being true, that Malfoy might have feelings for him. Part of him felt flattered; Malfoy was an attractive bloke, even if he did act just like Dudley used to. Being found attractive by another attractive person always felt nice. Why did it have to be _Malfoy_ , though? Why couldn’t it be someone who he hadn’t hated since he’d first laid eyes on them? 

Then a thought crossed Harry’s mind: what if he tested out this theory? Wondering was unpleasant, and left room in Harry’s head for strange feelings. If he proved Hermione wrong, maybe those weird feelings would disappear and he could stop thinking about Malfoy in general. But how would he test the theory? He was a terrible flirt, every bloke he’d tried to pick up through flirting had told him so. He was nice, though, and whenever he was nice blokes seemed to think he was flirting with them. Maybe that would do the trick. He could be nice to Malfoy, couldn’t he? 

 

oOo

 

Maybe he couldn’t be nice to Malfoy after all, Harry decided, promptly reminding himself that, while he was in Malfoy Manor he was supposed to refer to the spoiled baby brat as ‘Draco.’ 

All he’d said was, “You look nice, where’d you buy that shirt?” and Draco had narrowed his eyes and snapped, “Don’t bother asking, it’s not as if you could afford to shop there.” Being nice was going to be much harder than it had seemed when he’d decided to take that route. 

Draco seethed as his mother went to retrieve the game they were to play, leaving him and Harry alone in the parlour. She’d done it on purpose, he could just tell, and she had also apparently put Harry up to something more. Harry had never once complimented Draco’s attire, he would certainly remember if he had. So why would he start now, unless Draco’s dear, meddling mother had put him up to it?

“Er, right,” Harry said, lost for words. He could, in fact, afford to shop pretty much anywhere. He had been unemployed for two years and had hardly made a dent in his Gringotts vault. 

Draco seemed to eye Harry’s outfit harshly and said, “I see you’ve given up on dressing like a pureblood. It was a lost cause, anyhow. And what, may I ask, are Talking Heads? Some sort of muggle contraption?”

Harry snickered. “They’re a muggle band. One of my favourites, actually. You should look into them, if you like rock music at all.” Draco hummed noncommittally and looked at his perfectly manicured nails. Harry was attempting to think of something else nice to say, but Mrs. Malfoy walked into the room once more, saving him from making the effort.

“I hope this will suffice,” she said, setting a blue cardboard box on the stone coffee table. “I couldn’t find many that weren’t for a younger audience. I suppose I’ll have to search out more games, if this is to be a regular occurrence.”

“I thought— didn’t you already have a regular family game night?” Harry asked, confused. “You made it seem, in your letter…”

“Yes, we did, but that was many years ago, now. I thought it would be a nice change of pace to pick it up again, though it took some persuasion to get Draco, here, to agree.”

“Games are for children,” Draco deadpanned in his signature drawl, still staring at his nails. “Maybe that’s why you struggled so hard to find a suitable game for us, who are all grown adults.”

“Just a ball of blinding light, isn’t he?” Mrs. Malfoy teased.

“Sometimes, but mostly when the sun hits his hair just right,” Harry said, trying out being nice again. Both Mrs. Malfoy and Draco looked at him as though he’d gone mad, but Mrs. Malfoy seemed to realise Harry was simply trying to be more friendly, and she smiled approvingly. “Er, what game are we playing?”

“It’s called Your Adventure.”

“Merlin, mother, you can’t be serious,” Draco griped, crossing his arms and looking at his mum with an expression of disgust. This was practically a children’s game, too, and could hardly be considered entertaining, in his opinion. “I thought game night was intended to be stimulating, in some form.”

“It’s the best I could do. I thought Harry would enjoy it; it’s got danger, thrill, and, well, adventure, all without actually risking one’s life.” 

Without further ado, Mrs. Malfoy opened up the box and began removing strangely shaped dice, little plastic characters, and the biggest game board Harry had seen, which sprang into 3D once it had been laid out on the table fully. It was a map, complete with dirt paths, tiny towns and villages, mountains, valleys, oceans, ponds, islands, forests, and more. Harry leaned in closer, having never seen anything quite like it in his life. As he inspected one of the towns, he saw a citizen strolling down a street. The minuscule man looked up, saw Harry’s giant head, and promptly sprinted into one of the buildings lining the street, apparently scared out of his wits.

“These aren’t… they’re not real people, are they?” Harry asked, his panic building. 

Laughing, a meanness laced into it, Draco answered. “No, they’re not real, Potter. They’re charmed bits of plastic. Haven’t you ever played a wizarding game before?”

Harry frowned. Of course he’d played a wizarding game before, though the only one he’d played with moving pieces that resembled people was chess. He hadn’t figured other wizarding games had moving pieces, but he should’ve. 

“Alright, how do we play this, then?”

“You really are clueless, aren’t you?” Draco began, but Harry spoke before he could continue what was surely another jibe.

“Sort of, when it comes to things like this. But you’re much more educated about these things, so, if you could, please explain it for me?” Harry kept his tone light, friendly, and appealing, and just like that Draco’s demeanor changed.

“Of course I can,” he said more gently, his eyes displaying the confusion he felt. “These dice here are essentially your tools for making decisions. Say you run into a troll on your path and you’d like to… to fight it, seeing as you’re a Gryffindor through and through. You’d choose the method of attack and use these dice to see how well you do. We’ll probably start off with a game using only the D-ten, for simplicity’s sake, since it’s your first time.

“The higher the number you roll, the better your attack is. However, you can also roll to run away, to befriend, to seduce, to calm, or bewitch, to cast a spell, talk to animals, or anything, really. You don’t always have to use these, though. The game will tell you when you do, and how many of the dice you’re meant to roll. Usually, it’s during a time of high stress, when the stakes are higher. 

“You see, it’s a role-playing game,” Draco continued, his silver eyes brightening as he explained. He’d clearly played many times, Harry was certain, as he was very good at explaining the goals and plot of the game. “It’s called Your Adventure because you pick the sort of adventure you’d like to have. The map changes based on your decision, too, which is bloody brilliant, if you ask me. So, if you’d prefer, say, a post-apocalyptic setting…” Draco paused and Harry watched as the map transformed into something out of a Mad Max movie.

“What?!” Harry exclaimed, amazed at the transformation. 

“I _know_!” Draco enthused, somehow managing to contract Harry’s excitement about the game he, Draco, had come to find dull over years of much use. “And it can pretty much change to any setting. The only one that’s not much fun is underwater, because it’s much harder to observe from our perspective, so it loses the fun. Sort of like the Triwizard Tournament.”

“ _Oh_ , right, right,” Harry said, nodding, his interest completely held by the way Draco’s hands moved as he went on explaining, the way his attitude completely lightened up. It felt, for once, as though he and Harry were something akin to friends. Harry knew this wasn’t the case, couldn’t possibly be after such a short time knowing each other outside of their school rivalry, but it felt refreshing and… sort of incredible, if he were being completely honest with himself. 

Narcissa watched with immense satisfaction as her son explained the game to Harry. His face had transformed from its usually judgmental, pointy position and softened considerably. His eyes were so expressive, when he wasn’t acting like his father, and Narcissa loved to see him like this. It was so rare these days, and it surprised and comforted her that Harry was able to bring this out of Draco. After the dinner the previous weekend, she hadn’t been sure they could ever get along, but looking at them now you’d never know they had nearly killed each other in school. 

“So that’s really the gist of it,” Draco finished. “Do you know what sort of setting you’d like to play in?”

Harry thought for a moment, finding it difficult to concentrate. His head was filled with how different Draco had been as he’d explained the game. Rather than biting and harsh, Draco had seemed kind and helpful, excited and friendly. It was so, so unusual for Harry that he couldn’t stop picturing Draco’s explanation over and over again. 

“Why don’t we start with the standard map?” Mrs. Malfoy suggested, and the map changed to what it had looked like after it had been laid out. 

“Boring,” Draco moaned petulantly, but then shut his mouth. Suddenly he didn’t feel much like being rude to Harry anymore, which was a new experience for him entirely. “But I suppose, since he’s a beginner,” he added, and began passing out the plastic figurines.

“So now I pick my class and what?” Harry couldn’t remember all the things Draco had listed.

“Here.” Draco flicked his wand and three rolls of parchment, a bottle of ink, and several quills floated into the room. He charmed the parchment flat and passed one sheet each to his mother and Harry. “You’ll pick your race first, so your playing piece knows what to look like.”

“Oh,” Harry said, trying to think. “Er, what are my options?”

“You could be an elf, wizard, dragonborn, dwarf, gnome, half-elf, orc, half-orc, muggle, goblin, lizardfolk, triton, tabaxi—”

“Okay, whoa, that’s a lot more than I’ll remember.”

A biting quip was on the tip of Draco’s tongue, but he swallowed it and said instead, “Why don’t you start off as an elf? They’re beautiful, noble beings, sort of slender and average muggle or wizard height, and they live a long time— I think about seven hundred years?”

“I know what an elf is,” Harry laughed. “And yeah, I think I’ll start there.” As he spoke, the plastic figure he held turned into an elf-like version of him. “Is it— it looks like me!”

“That was always one of my favourite parts of this game,” Mrs. Malfoy said. “I’d always wondered what I would look like if I’d been born of another race. I prefer playing as a tiefling called Orianna. See?”

“Wicked,” Harry breathed as Mrs. Malfoy’s playing piece turned into a gorgeous woman with flowing silver hair. Horns spiraled out from above her temples, giving the character a dangerous, otherworldly look. “She sort of looks like a human, only with horns.”

“Astute observation. She is mostly muggle, but with infernal blood mixed in her veins. Her blood is why people tend to mistrust her, as her infernal heritage has left a terrible reputation in regards to her morality, as well as who she is as a person.”

“Sounds sort of familiar,” Harry said with a small smile. 

“I’ll bet it does.” Mrs. Malfoy smiled back, knowingly. “Draco, will you be taking on your usual character tonight?”

“No, I think I’ll play an elf as well,” Draco said slowly, considering his options. “Oh, here’s the list of names you can choose for each race.” 

Harry took the list and read it over. “I’ll be Laucian.”

“Really, Potter?” Draco deadpanned.

“No,” Harry laughed. “Theren, I think. These are some strange names.”

“I suppose someone who’d never played this game before would think so,” Draco muttered. “I’ll be Erevan, a druid elf.”

“What’s a druid?”

“That’s a class, Potter, did you even pay attention to my explanation?”

“I paid attention to _you_ ,” Harry said, smirking, just to see Draco’s reaction. Oh, this whole being nice thing really was going to have its perks. Draco’s cheeks turned a glowing pink and his mouth popped open a bit. Hastily, Draco cleared his throat and anchored his eyes on the list of classes before him.

“Your options are as follows…”

Painstakingly, they filled out their character sheets, going over attributes, skills, starting spells and items, and rules. When they’d finished, the map began speaking in a deep, baritone voice to describe to each of them their locations. Each of the playing pieces floated to different parts of the map, all separate from each other. 

“Why aren’t we together?” Harry asked, feeling very clueless.

Draco blinked in shock, for a moment, before he realised what Harry had meant. “S-sometimes the map starts players off as a party, but other times it starts us off apart. If you’d like to be in a party, you’ll have to try and catch up with us. If we let you,” Draco added in a playful tone. 

“Of course we’ll let him,” Mrs. Malfoy said, patting Harry’s shoulder comfortingly. “Harry— or Theren, rather— what will you do first?”

“What are my options?”

“Whatever you like,” Draco answered, rolling his eyes. “The map has a story line ready for us, but it accommodates and might change things depending on what each character decides to do. So just do something.”

“Alright… I, erm, I climb down from my tree and start walking—” Draco’s character seemed to be east of where his character was. “—East.”

“ _Theren, alone and lost, follows the rising sun for several miles when, suddenly, a band of orcs drops from the surrounding trees, effectively blocking any path he could take,_ ” the map said. 

“Shit— I mean dang it,” Harry amended, sneaking a look at Mrs. Malfoy. “I only have a dagger for a weapon…” He paused and considered his options, remembering what Draco said about how he could handle enemies. “I wasn’t expecting to run into opponents this early on in the game.”

“Maybe they aren’t opponents,” Mrs. Malfoy said offhandedly, a small upward twist at the edges of her lips. 

“Oh. Then I guess I’ll greet them.”

“ _What is it you say to the orcs?_ ” the map asked. 

“Er, how do you do? I’m lost, and would love some traveling companions,” Harry said, unsure of whether or not this is the right thing to do. He looked at the map and saw that his character was indeed surrounded by seven mean looking orcs. 

To Harry’s surprise, he wound up traveling with a party of orcs, who have mass quantities of food, wine, and weapons, all of which they offer to share with him. They made their way toward Draco’s character for a while, not running into much trouble, before the turn switched. Mrs. Malfoy’s turn was next and she decides how to start her journey. She began traveling toward Draco as well, stopped only briefly to test her morality by having to choose between saving a child from a burning house or saving herself. In the end, she chose the child. Just before her character was about to drift off into a fiery death, the child transformed into a witch, who rescued Narcissa and rewarded her by fully healing her, offering her loads of gold, armor, and an enchanted sword sent to earth by the old gods, whoever they were. 

When it came time for Draco’s turn, he walked to the nearest pond and crafted a fishing pole, then went fishing. Harry laughed and wondered aloud what sort of adventure that was.

“I’ve never been fishing, Potty,” Draco said defensively. “Besides, this is _my_ adventure, so who are you to judge? Go have an orc orgy and fuck off.”

“Language, Draco,” Mrs. Malfoy sighed, disappointed that her son’s meanness had made a comeback, and disgusted at his manner of speaking. 

“He said shit, earlier, and you didn’t reprimand him,” Draco complained, sounding just like a child. 

“Harry is not my son.”

“Yeah, but you wish he was.” Harry almost didn’t hear Draco’s whispered comeback. Almost. It seemed Mrs. Malfoy was going to ignore it, if she did hear it, and Harry couldn’t tell if she had or hadn’t, as her face remained impassive. 

“ _You nearly release your fishing pole as a large tug pulls the line taught,_ ” the map said.

“I grab on tightly and pull, trying to lure up whatever’s biting my hook,” Draco replied quickly, a look of excitement on his face. 

“ _A mermaid surfaces, furious at your capture of her. Your hook has snagged her cheek, and she bleeds into the water. As tears stream down her wet cheeks, she curses you, though you cannot tell which curse is put upon you, as she speaks her native language._ ”

“Are you kidding me? All I wanted was to go fishing!” Draco huffed angrily, crossing his arms. “‘You blasted minger,’ I tell her, and throw my fishing pole at her stupid head. Then I run back to my cabin to avoid further curses. What was a mermaid doing in a fucking pond, anyway?”

“ _Language_ , Draco,” Mrs. Malfoy chided more sternly.

“We’re all adults, mother,” Draco nearly shouted.

“Fine, be vulgar!” Mrs. Malfoy snapped, and it was the first time Harry had ever seen her lose her patience. It only lasted a split second, though, before she had composed herself once more. “I thought I’d raised you against such crude behaviour. Apparently not.” Draco merely rolled his eyes.

“ _You must roll to escape. Use two D-tens._ ”

Picking up two of the diamond-shaped dice, Draco shook them in his palm, fierce determination written all over his pointed face. When he released them, they landed with the numbers four and eight facing upward. 

“ _Narrowly, you escape,_ ” the map told Draco, “ _but not before she sets fire to the surrounding wood. Do you abandon your cabin, or risk burning yourself alive?_ ”

“What’s with this game burning people alive, this campaign?” Draco asked, irritated at his run of poor luck. “I cast a fire-repellent charm and run to my cabin to grab my most important items.”

Of course, Draco had to roll for the fire-repellent charm, and somehow managed to roll a twenty. His character grabbed all of his starter items and left his cabin unscathed, then worked his way across the forest to meet up with Harry and Mrs. Malfoy’s characters. 

The game lasted several hours before the three of them paused for snacks and refreshments. Harry chugged two glasses of water and realised it probably wasn’t wise to do that in a place that he had no idea where the loo was. 

“Draco will show you,” Mrs. Malfoy said when Harry had asked. “I think I shall retire for the evening, boys. It’s past nine, and I’m not accustomed to staying up this late.” Standing, she approached Harry and embraced him tightly, adding a squeeze before she released him and smiled, exposing her straight, white teeth. “I can’t thank you enough, Harry, for joining us tonight. Although I wish Draco would use appropriate words in times of anger, I don’t believe he ruined the evening, in the end. I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself.”

“Oh, I have,” Harry said quickly, his need to urinate growing by the second. 

“You two can feel free to continue playing for as long as you’d like. My character will be considered ‘resting’ while I’m away.”

“Thank you, I’d like that.” Startled by the fact that he really would like continuing the game, even one-on-one with Draco, Harry decided not to think too much on his decision to stay. He watched with impatience as Mrs. Malfoy hugged her son and spoke to him in hushed words, then left the room. He really did have to wee, and if Draco didn’t show him to the bathroom soon, he might be doing it here on the oriental rug.

“Alright, Potter, follow me,” Draco said, not bothering to wait for Harry before he, too, left the room. 

Harry rushed to catch up to Draco and began walking in silence beside the slightly taller man. The corridor seemed to stretch on for too long, and though there were plenty of doors, Draco didn’t stop at any of them. Walking, at least, put off Harry’s urge to wee slightly, so he knew he wouldn’t be wetting himself and causing himself indescribable embarrassment and Draco immense pleasure at seeing something so humiliating happen to him. 

Finally Draco stopped, after multiple turns down more too-long corridors. “Here’s the potty, Potty.”

Harry didn’t even bother to respond, and instead rushed to relieve himself. 

Once he’d successfully managed not to disgrace himself on the Malfoys’ expensive rugs, Harry left the bathroom feeling much more comfortable, but alone. Apparently Draco had thought he could find his own way back to the parlour, but Harry wasn’t so confident in himself. He had hardly paid any attention to his surroundings, or the path they’d taken to get to the loo, he’d had to wee so badly. 

“Fucking Malfoy,” Harry muttered as he began his search of the parlour.

Remembering that the bathroom door had been on his left on the way to it, he took a right. When he came to a crossroads, however, he was unsure whether to continue on straight, or to turn right or left. Each way looked nearly identical to the other, with gold framed portraits and sconces burning oil lining the walls. How was anyone supposed to know how to navigate this place, when it all looked the same? He could yell, but he doubted Malfoy would hear him. 

Several of the people in their portraits had woken up in order to sneer at Harry, and, figuring he had nothing to lose, he asked one of the least haughty looking ones for directions.

“S’cuse me,” Harry said, coming up close to a painting of a woman dressed in elaborate, deep purple robes. She sat tall in her armchair, beside a roaring fire, and looked down her nose at Harry. “Do you happen to know how I can get to the parlour from here?”

“Which one?” she asked, enunciating each word as though she thought Harry too stupid to comprehend.

“Oh, er…” There was more than one parlour? Of course there was. “The one… the one that the Malfoys have game night in?” he tried. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Is that the best you can do?” she drawled, her nose wrinkling as she sneered. Perhaps Harry had chosen the wrong portrait.

“It’s got blue walls. Dark blue, if that helps, with a sort of burnt yellow trim.”

Blinking slowly, the woman said, “Humph! I suppose if you belonged here, you’d already know, wouldn’t you?”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. If he had expected any sort of response, it hadn’t been that, though he supposed he shouldn’t be too shocked; this was, in all likelihood, a relative of the Malfoys, with similar mannerisms to them. 

“Close your mouth, boy,” she huffed, turning her face away from him in disdain, a disgusted slant to her mouth. “I never would’ve allowed such filth in my home… If only Lucius had married someone suitable.” 

Leaving the horrible portrait to continue muttering awful things about him, Harry resigned himself to the fact that he’d just have to guess. He went left. The portraits down this hall whispered as he passed, leaving their frames to visit with the other paintings and gossip about the Malfoys’ visitor. Harry gritted his teeth, hating the feeling of being watched, and hurried down across the rich burgundy hall rug. After about a minute of walking this corridor, Harry spotted a well-lit archway up on his right and jogged up to it, his nerves relaxing as he found his way back. When he walked into the room, however, he found that he’d never been in it before. It was filled with potions equipment: beakers, phials, funnels, graduated cylinders, and boiling cauldrons of copper, gold, silver, and cast iron. Flasks of different sizes filled with myriad coloured liquids lined one workbench, and on another, cutting boards, various shaped knives, mortar and pestles, evaporating dishes, and crucibles and jars filled with ingredients. It seemed that every available surface was covered in potions things, aside from one clean desk which appeared to be the only organized area in the room. 

Stepping closer to investigate, Harry found that the desk held notes and recipes, all written in a very neat script, one that he recognized from school: Draco’s. So this was his lab, Harry realised. Why had Draco gone to uni, only to get a degree in General Magic, if he was so interested in potions? Why not get a mastery in potions instead? What was he doing will all of this equipment, anyway? Hopefully nothing nefarious, Harry thought. Knowing Malfoy, it probably was, though. Should Harry report this to the Ministry? What if this had something to do with why Mrs. Malfoy was cozying up to him so quickly? What if Neville had been right?

Panicked and suddenly a bit afraid, Harry jogged to the exit, only to be stopped by Draco himself. 

“Leave it to you to go snooping around, left unattended for less than a minute,” Draco sighed, crossing his arms and walking past Harry, joining him in the laboratory. “That was always your schtick at Hogwarts, wasn’t it?”

“I-I wasn’t snooping, I was lost and trying to get back to the parlour, since you just left me there.”

“I was using the bathroom, too, you—” Taking a deep breath, Draco composed himself. “If you had waited a moment, I would’ve been able to lead you back to the parlour so you didn’t have to wander around by yourself. Some of these rooms are sealed off, due to the dark nature of the things they contain, but not all, and the manor has a habit of sometimes moving rooms around to lure people into them.”

“Why would anyone want to live in a place like that?”

“You try buying new property with a name like mine, Potter, and ask that question again.” 

Oh. Harry felt badly for asking the question, not having even considered that maybe the Malfoys were unable to move away. 

“Why do you have an entire potions lab here?” Harry asked, unable to keep suspicion from seeping into his words. 

“Why do you care? What business is it of yours?”

“I was only asking…”

“Because, Potter,” Draco couldn’t help but spit Harry’s name as he spoke it, “Nobody would dare to hire me to brew for them, and most brewers won’t sell to my family, either. Any and all potions we use on a regular basis— wound-cleaning, pepperup, laxative, murtlap essence, burn-healing paste, sleeping draught, hair care, blood-replenishing, you name it— I now have to brew myself.”

“Your mum mentioned that nobody would hire you,” Harry said, before he’d properly thought it through.

“Of course she did, the woman doesn’t know how to keep a secret to save her life. Except, apparently, when it comes to you,” Draco said bitterly. “She hasn’t said a word about what you’ve written to her. What else has she told you about me?” It was Draco’s turn to sound suspicious. Harry shrugged, but Draco shook his head and took a step nearer to him. “No, don’t even, Potter. I deserve to know the things she tells you about me. It isn’t fair that you should have the upper hand.”

“Upper hand in what?” Harry said, bewildered. “We’re not, like, competing, are we? Besides, all she said was that you’re as directionless in your career search as I am, so there. She said you can’t get hired, even though you’ve got an MGMK, and that she hopes things will change so you can have a possibility of a better future than your father. She hasn’t told me your deep, dark secrets, if you have any.”

“And what did _you_ say to her about that?” Draco’s tone had lost its anger and was now bordering on curious and apprehensive, even a bit fearful. 

“That you should create your own business instead of waiting for people to see that you’re only human, just like everyone else. If they won’t get past, well, the past, then they can bugger off, can’t they? It’s obvious after seeing this room that you’re well versed in brewing, so why not start a company? Nobody would even have to know you’re the one running it, especially if you have someone else as the face of the company, someone else dealing with public relations, if you need to.” Harry shrugged. “I don’t even think you’d need that, if you handled all of your clients by owl.”

For a long time, Draco stood there, quietly. Harry thought he’d said something to offend him, but in reality Draco was taking in everything Harry had said and formulating an idea. Why _didn’t_ he start his own company? What was stopping him? He had the money to do it, and he knew what he was doing. He could brew almost anything, given the proper time to research. 

“Sorry,” Harry said. “I didn’t mean to offend you, or try to tell you how to live your life.”

“Potter, you’re fucking brilliant,” Draco said quietly, still looking out at his potions things with wide eyes. 

“Never thought I’d hear you say that in all my life.”

“You’d probably say that a lot if you knew— just, er… forget I said that.” Feeling his cheeks heat up, Draco turned and left he lab, not waiting for Potter. If he wanted to find his way back to the parlour alone, so be it. They’d probably recover his body in some dark, dank corner of the manor years from now.

“If I knew what?” Harry asked, falling into step beside Draco. 

“Nothing.”

“According to you, ninety-nine percent of the time, I already know nothing.” 

Unable to help himself, Draco snorted. “Who knew you had a sense of humour?”

“Only you, most everyone else hates my jokes because they’re primarily puns.” Harry paused and decided to risk asking Draco again. “What were you going to say?” He knew what he thought Draco was going to say, but wanted to hear it for himself, from the mouth of the horse, so to speak. 

“Fucking— quit that, will you?”

“Do you compliment me a lot, inside your head?” Harry said, tongue-in-cheek. Draco’s cheeks blushed deeply and Harry grinned smugly. “You do, don’t you?”

“You wish, Potter.” Draco had been attempting to sound cool and casual, but his voice cracked in his nervousness and he failed miserably. 

“You _like_ me,” Harry accused, grinning widely. He wasn’t sure why, but the idea of Draco liking him was truly appealing to him, in a way he couldn’t describe. It was as if, after years of hatred and fighting, Draco liking him was the final closed door to the past, for Harry. 

“Not even in your wildest dreams, Wonder Boy,” Draco snarled, deciding to lead Harry to the front door instead of the parlour. 

“Oh, come on, admit it.” Harry knew he was pushing his luck, but couldn’t help himself. He just wanted to hear Draco say it, just once. He watched Draco’s face as he struggled to keep pace with him, watched as Draco’s frown lines deepened and his eyes seemed to light up with silver coals. “Why is it so difficult to just—”

Halting before the large front doors, Draco sharply turned his body to face Harry, fury etched into his rigid posture. Harry shut himself up immediately, only just then realising what sort of danger he was in, taking the piss out of Draco like this.

“Is it so impossible for you to believe that, out of this entire fanclub of a country, there could be one fucking person who didn’t worship the ground you walk on?” Malfoy hissed, his eyes flashing and spit flicking from his pink lips. “Is it so hard to think that, maybe, after years of constantly being overshadowed by your larger-than-life existence, I might not even be able to _look at you_ for long periods of time, let alone bring myself to _‘like you?_ ’”

Harry’s chest felt as though it were being punctured with every word Draco spoke. His smile had slipped clean off his face the instant Draco had turned to face him, and now he was left with a vulnerable, shocked expression to counter Draco’s livid one. 

“No,” Harry whispered, unable to find his voice. “No, it’s not that hard.”

Without waiting for a response from Draco, Harry turned and left. He couldn’t know it, but if he’d kept on looking at Draco a moment longer, he would’ve seen how quickly his face had fallen, the steam going out of him completely as he realised the mistake he’d made.


	3. Chapter 3

Ron shook his head and sipped his pint, looking off into the distance of the pub. “Well, knowing how well the two of you get along, it’s not all that surprising that things turned out the way they did. What _is_ a shocker is that there were no hexes or curses thrown.”

“You’re not helping, Ron, look at him,” Hermione said, her pitying tone nearly too much for Harry to handle. “It’s clear that he’s upset by all this.”

“I’m not upset by anything, I’m just—” He paused, but couldn’t think of an adjective that better described how he felt. 

“No, mate, you’re upset. Haven’t seen you this beat up about something since you and Ginny ended things. Not to mention, you’re on your third pint and we’ve only finished one each.”

“Oh, Ron, will you shut up?” Hermione said, lightly swatting her husband’s shoulder in irritation. 

“Listen to your wife,” Harry grumbled, and took a long swig of his milk stout. “I’m not that upset. I’m not crying, am I?”

“You didn’t really cry when you and Ginny broke up, though, did you?” Hermione said contemplatively. She thought back to when Harry had first come out about his sexuality, and the resulting breakup of his relationship. He hadn’t cried at all, that she’d seen, and neither had Ginny after the first couple of days. Harry had sulked to a nearly worrisome extent, mostly feeling lost and sorry for himself and guilty about Ginny, but even that hadn’t lasted too long. They were much happier apart, as it turned out, though it had taken Ginny a bit longer than Harry to realise that. “It was more like… well, more like this, really. Ron’s not wrong, for once,” she teased. “He’s not helping, but he’s not wrong.”

“Neither of you are helping, honestly. I’m fine. It just hurt, hearing him say all that. I’d thought we were making progress, after how well the evening went. Guess I was wrong. He was just pretending to put up with me for his mum’s sake, probably.”

“I don’t think he was pretending, Harry,” Hermione said, patting his hand comfortingly. “From the way you tell it, it seems he was embarrassed that you were confronting him about how he feels towards you, and so, rather than swallow his pride and aim for integrity, he lashed out, like always. It’s typical Malfoy behaviour, really.” 

“Yeah, well, lashing out or not, it hurt. How could he think I enjoy all the praise I get? And I _don’t_ think that everyone likes me, nor should they!”

“We know that, but… Well, sometimes you do come off as big-headed.”

“Hermione, really? You’re as bad as you say I am,” Ron said, shaking his head at her. “You’re not big-headed, mate, you’re just… You’re just a confident bloke, and some people mistake confidence for arrogance, or vanity.” He paused to review his statement and amended, “Well, most people do, come to think of it.” 

Harry appreciated Ron’s attempt at consolation, but he couldn’t help exclaiming, “God, does everyone think of me the way Malfoy does? Like I’m just some—some fame-hungry celebrity, begging for everyone’s approval?”

“Not the people who truly _know_ you,” Hermione said, her voice a plea for Harry to believe her and cheer up. “We know that you can’t stand the attention you receive on a regular basis, hence why you only sleep with men from other countries.”

“Yeah, well apparently Malfoy doesn’t see me that way.”

“Why does his opinion matter anyway?” Ron asked, unable to understand why Malfoy’s opinion would _ever_ matter. 

Ron had never been able to understand why Malfoy had the uncanny ability to act in a way that made Harry care about everything he did, ever since first year. He understood what it was like to have enemies, but there had always been an added complexity to the way that Harry and Malfoy were enemies. What the underlying cause of that complexity was, Ron couldn’t define, but it was most certainly real.

“I don’t know. It shouldn’t,” Harry sighed, feeling miserable— and ashamed of himself for feeling miserable because of Malfoy, of all people, and even more miserable for feeling ashamed of himself when he thought it was warranted. 

As Harry tilted his pint back, and put his friends momentarily in a blind spot, Hermione quickly shot Ron a look that told him all he needed to know about why Harry cared. 

“ _Ooooh_.” Ron stretched the word, understanding dawning on him. 

“Oooh, what?” Harry mimicked, having missed their exchange.

“Nothing, nothing. I’m sure this will all blow over soon. Try not to worry so much about it.” Keeping his voice neutral, he waved his hand nonchalantly. It wouldn’t do for him to tell Harry that he obviously returned whatever feelings Hermione thought Malfoy had for him. That would cause all sorts of problems, as it was clear Harry wasn’t ready to confront his feelings yet. Ron wasn’t sure _he_ was ready to confront Harry’s feelings, either, and they had nothing to do with him. Why Harry would harbour an interest for Malfoy was not clear to Ron, but he vowed to support his friend in whatever way Harry required; that was, after all, what friends were meant to do— given the person they were supporting wasn’t in danger from their choices, and Ron had a feeling Harry wasn’t— and he knew he’d failed at supporting Harry more than he cared to admit, in the past. He’d really let Harry down fourth year and during the horcrux hunt in particular. He wasn’t about to fail at supporting Harry again, now. 

“Ron’s right. Mrs. Malfoy will probably invite you back for another dinner, or game night, and you and Malfoy can try again.”

“Try again with what? Hating each other?” Harry knew he was sulking, but he couldn’t help it. He just felt so bloody awful because of what Malfoy had said to him, and no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that Malfoy’s opinion really didn’t mean anything, he couldn’t help feeling it did.

“How about another round?” Ron asked. “I’m buying.”

 

oOo

 

Just as Hermione had said, Harry was invited back to Malfoy Manor for another game night the following Thursday. This time, however, he declined. He apologised profusely to Mrs. Malfoy, but said that he couldn’t make it, giving no excuse as to why. She’d probably see through any excuse he gave, anyhow, not that he wanted to lie to her. He’d grown to respect the woman, and through his encounters with her Harry had come to see that Mrs. Malfoy was incredibly perceptive, particularly when spotting falsehoods. 

When Mrs. Malfoy replied she didn’t seem too bothered by Harry’s refusal; rather, she had invited him to dinner on the following Saturday. Harry had said no to this, also. Mrs. Malfoy’s response to his second refusal was simply _I see_ , written in her looping, elegant script. Nothing more. If Harry had felt guilty before, it was nothing compared to how he felt after he’d told her no twice. Now, however, along with his guilt was the fear that she would give up— or perhaps already had given up— on maintaining any sort of relationship with him, that he had lost a pen pal and someone he considered a friend. All because he was too cowardly to confront Malfoy after their last encounter. 

It wasn’t as if he could tell Mrs. Malfoy the reason he couldn’t come over anymore; Malfoy had been upset enough about Harry and his mother discussing him in their letters before, Harry could only imagine how upset he’d be if he tattled on him to his mummy. Not to mention, Mrs. Malfoy would probably have a ‘chat’ with Malfoy about what could cause Harry to avoid visiting. As far as she knew, they’d gotten along well. She hadn’t been awake long enough to see how the evening had ended. If she talked to Malfoy about what had happened, she would lecture him and things would be even worse for everyone, but especially Harry. She might even blame Malfoy for Harry’s decision to distance himself, and wouldn’t that just please Malfoy so? No, it was better if he kept this all to himself. 

As it turned out, however, he didn’t need to say anything to Mrs. Malfoy for her to figure everything out. Harry realised this two weeks later when he received a letter that didn’t contain Mrs. Malfoy’s familiar handwriting. Instead, Harry saw as his eyes flicked to the bottom of the parchment, it was sighed by D.M. Groaning, Harry shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to quell the headache that was forming behind his eyes, letting the scroll spiral closed. He couldn’t avoid reading it forever, he knew, so after counting to ten he braced himself and re-opened the letter. 

_Potter,_ the letter began in Malfoy’s spiky writing, _I’m sorry about what I said. Truly. I didn’t mean any of it, I was just reacting badly to your pressuring me to tell you I like you._ So, Harry thought, Hermione was right yet again. _Not that that excuses my actions and words. I treated you poorly, a guest in my home, without a thought for how you would feel after being disrespected so._

_If you must know, I don’t dislike your presence. You add life to my home, where there was a lack thereof before. Your vibrant personality brings a certain energy to the room, and you are funny without even trying. I, for one, don’t hate your puns. And no, I’m not telling you all of this because my mother is standing right behind me, watching me add every word to this letter._ Here there was a splatter of ink. Harry pictured Malfoy having his arm slapped by his mother, and smiled at the clumsy mark. 

_Please join us for dinner this Friday evening. Mother suggested we put off having game night for a while, though I can’t imagine why.._ Couldn’t he? Harry could easily imagine why. Shaking his head almost fondly, Harry continued reading. _I’ll be on my best behaviour, or else. Mother said I had to fix that, so— I’ll be on my best behaviour, I promise, all of my own volition. To make up for my actions, the next time we play Your Adventure I’ll have Erevan gift Theren something special. I won’t tell you what it is now, or it’ll ruin the surprise. See? I can be nice too, from time to time. Generous, even._

_Again, I’m sorry I was such a prick. D.M_

Harry’s grin had grown large enough to display his teeth, by the end of the letter. He now had, in writing, proof that Malfoy liked— or ‘didn’t dislike’— him, even if his mother had made him say so. Harry had the suspicion that Malfoy wouldn’t have written this letter if he truly hadn’t wanted to, and that Mrs. Malfoy’s prompting was simply the only way he would’ve had the courage to write it. Of course, this was just a suspicion, another theory to add to the growing pile. Regardless, he couldn’t wait to show Ron and Hermione. 

 

oOo

 

The next time Harry went to the manor he was much more graciously greeted by Draco, but his niceness didn’t hold up under pressure, as fate would have it. Harry, Mrs. Malfoy, and Draco all sat at the dinner table, barely speaking a word, for hours. It seemed Draco was only capable of being pleasant in person if he wasn’t forced to make any real effort. Or, Harry recalled with a wistful little feeling in his chest, while explaining the rules to a board game. Harry attempted his own geniality towards Draco several times, only to be stared at as if he were a pillock of the worst sort. And Draco probably thought he was. Mrs. Malfoy, at least, seemed to appreciate Harry’s attempts. 

This was how things had gone the next six times Harry visited the manor: Harry tried to be friendly while Draco raised an uncaring, golden brow and Mrs. Malfoy smiled, half sympathetic, half encouraging. 

On his seventh visit after Draco’s letter Mrs. Malfoy decided that the two of them had behaved themselves well enough to continue playing Your Adventure, which Harry found to be an exciting prospect. Then again, Harry was dead tired of dealing with Draco’s standoffish attitude and wasn’t sure he could put up with it in a situation where they were forced to interact more than they were at dinners. 

The trio was walking from the dining room to the parlour when an idea struck Harry, who was mulling Draco’s attitude over in his mind: if he couldn’t get Draco to be responsive through being amiable, perhaps giving him no attention at all would fire him up. Harry decided to test this theory out, knowing it to be true already from his experiences with Draco in school. If Draco hadn’t grown out of this habit, maybe Harry had a fighting chance.

For a while, Harry let game night play out organically, just to see how Draco would act. After the three characters had met up, however, and Draco was still being just as aloof as he’d been for over a month, Harry decided it was time to put his theory into play. 

Seeing as nothing particularly exciting was happening in Your Adventure, anyway, Harry completely disregarded Erevan, Draco’s character. Instead he put all his focus on helping Orianna, Mrs. Malfoy’s character, fight and flee from the pack of wild boars that had surrounded their campsite in the middle of the night. Erevan was camping with the other two characters as well, but Harry paid no attention to that fact as he told the map what he planned to do to rescue them from the pigs. Mrs. Malfoy seemed to catch onto Harry’s plan and she, too, began ignoring her son. 

“ _The boars abandon the tree Theren and Orianna sit in the high branches of, instead putting their sights on Erevan. As fast as he runs, he does not manage to reach a tree fast enough to evade the boars. They close in. Erevan, what shall you do?_ ” the map asked, and Harry swore that it, too, was following his plan at this point, even though he knew that was impossible. It was just a map, so it had to be impartial, right?

“I cast an animal friendship spell on the load of them,” Draco said hastily. 

“ _Roll two D-tens._ ” Draco rolled his dice and managed a thirteen, but it didn’t matter. “ _You cast your spell, only to discover that the boars’ intelligence scores above a level four, and thus the spell is not effective. They slow as they approach, forming a circle around you. They huff and swing their heads, their horns grazing your shins. What will you do, now?_ ”

“You’ve got to be bloody kidding me— I, erm, cast spike growth!” Draco never stuttered, as far as he could tell, but protecting his character from the boars was hiking up his anxiety rather quickly.

“ _Roll two D-tens._ ” Draco rolled a sixteen. “ _In a six meter radius, large spikes shoot from the ground, encompassing you as they violently tear up the earth. Some of the boars are impaled on the sharp, stony spikes. Others are wounded, but not killed. For now, Erevan is safe within the circle, though your mana nears its draining point. Orianna’s turn._ ”

“My, my. Harry, what say we get out of this area? It’s becoming quite dangerous,” Mrs. Malfoy suggested, a sly smile on her rosy lips. 

“I think that’s a great idea,” Harry agreed. 

“In that case, I invite Theren to accompany me to jump from tree to tree in an effort to escape this area,” she said decisively. 

“ _If Theren agrees, you must both each roll one D-ten._ ”

“I agree,” Harry said, so the map wouldn’t get confused. The game was much more fun when the players were together, but more complicated as how turns were meant to be played. Players making joint decisions had to be very precise about their actions or risk things going astray. 

The two of them followed the map’s directions, rolling a nineteen collectively and the two of them high-fived in excitement. Meanwhile, Draco’s mouth hung open in offense and disbelief as he stared back and forth between Harry and his mother.

“You’re really just going to leave me here to deal with these wild boars by myself?” he nearly shouted. 

Mrs. Malfoy raised a single eyebrow at her son and then looked back at the map, which had continued speaking.

“ _Theren and Orianna hop away from the danger from tree to tree, frightening away the birds hidden in the branches around them. Together they find a safe haven in which to rest. The sun sits high in the sky and light streams through the treetops, casting the surrounding area in a comfortable glow. Erevan’s turn._ ”

“This is bollocks.” Draco crossed his arms and tightened his jaw. Something was going on between his mother and Harry, and he was not enjoying one bit of it. 

“ _The boars that were not killed by the ground spikes continue to circle menacingly around you, Erevan, unable to get to you, but unwilling to give up in their pursuit of you. How will you proceed?_ ”

“I throw one of my pieces of dried meat as far as I can to distract them and run to the nearest tree.”

Probably out of pity, if it was capable of pity, the map didn’t require that Draco roll to make this move. Once safely hidden in his tree, however, Draco attempted to have his character follow the other two, only to roll a three and have his character fall from one of the trees, breaking his leg in the process. 

“Fucking shite!” 

“Draco,” Mrs. Malfoy said, warning in her tone.

“I’ve broken my bloody leg, mother, I think I have every right to use profanity,” he snarled. “Will one of you please come and help me?”

“It’s a bit weird to get so upset over a game, isn’t it?” Harry asked Mrs. Malfoy, earning him a warning as well. 

“It’s not weird, it’s perfectly normal. Now, one of you get over here and help me before the boars find me again. There’s no way I’ll get out of here alive with a broken leg and I’ve used almost all my magic trying to escape.”

“Cast disillusionment, Draco,” Mrs. Malfoy suggested, coming off as rather uncaring in Harry’s opinion. As difficult as it was, Harry did manage not to snicker. “It costs hardly any mana.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Draco muttered bitterly. “I cast disillusionment on myself.”

“ _With your remaining energy, you hide yourself from your foe. Though they can smell you, and get dangerously close, they do not find you. After a panic inducing while, filled with the sounds of their snorting snouts, they abandon their search and leave you in peace._ ”

“I’d like to quit playing now, if you please,” Draco said, his voice rough with anger.

“Oh, come now, Draco,” Mrs. Malfoy said. “This is just a game, as Harry mentioned, albeit rudely. Sorry, dear, but it’s true,” she directed at Harry before continuing. “Don’t let one moment ruin the evening.”

“No, you two were ganging up on me. It was obvious. Do not insult my intelligence by pretending you weren’t.”

“Maybe if you were nicer…” Harry trailed off, unsure of whether or not it was a good idea to add his opinion at that moment. 

“If I were— is that what this is about? I’m not _nice_ enough?”

“You must admit, Draco, that you have been rather cold and uninvolved nearly every time Harry has come to see us. Treat others as you would have them treat you, remember, love?”

Draco glared at both Harry and his mother, pursed his lips, and stood up. “You’re the one who wanted to invite him here, regardless of anything I said,” he bit out, emphasising each word as it passed his tightened lips. “You’re the one who demanded I not only participate in your little get togethers, but be, at the very least, civil while doing so. And I have been, have I not? Why is it that I’m never enough or too much, and never anything in between?” In truth, Draco knew he hadn’t tried in the slightest to be more civil to Harry, but he’d never admit that. Probably, his mother already knew. 

“You are neither too much, nor too little,” Mrs. Malfoy expressed calmly, standing as well. Harry began putting the game away, sensing that it was probably time he got going. “However, as Harry is a guest in our home, we should treat him as such. That’s all I ask. It seems even this small request is too onerous for you to handle.”

Shaking his head, Draco closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them again it was to direct a piercing glare full of loathing at Harry and then march out of the room. 

“Draco,” Mrs. Malfoy called, but Harry placed a hand on her arm.

“No, let me,” he offered, figuring he’d better clean up the mess he’d made before he left. It wouldn’t do to start a war between mother and son and walk away to leave them to deal with it. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I guess I’ll find out,” Harry sighed, and jogged after Draco. 

Following Draco was more difficult than Harry had assumed it would be. The moment Draco had glanced over his shoulder and discovered Harry’s presence, he had quickened his pace doubly. Harry wasn’t more than a few centimeters shorter than Draco, but it seemed most of Draco’s height was in his legs. They certainly were able to span a larger area, and more quickly, than Harry’s could. Harry found himself nearly running to keep up with Draco, coming very close to getting lost as Draco turned corners faster than Harry could. 

“Please stop!” Harry called, his breath coming faster. 

“ _Leave_ , Potter!” was Draco’s shouted response. 

Harry could hear the portraits lining the walls snapping out of their peaceful, painted slumbers. They snorted and gasped awake, rubbernecking with wide eyes to watch the drama unfold. As much as he wanted to be embarrassed about this, he was too focused on catching Draco. So, instead of simply running, he began to sprint. Harry sprinted after Draco, realising only too late just how inactive he’d been where his cardio practices were concerned. 

“Can we please just talk? I’m sorry!”

Draco didn’t even bother to respond, and suddenly Harry found himself face to face with a slammed door, presumably to Draco’s bedroom. 

“I thought you’d grown up a bit in seven years, Malfoy,” Harry spat out furiously at the cherrywood door. There was no reply. Sighing, Harry figured a less affronting tactic might work better to lure Draco out of his room. “You stubborn arsehole,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to make you feel… left out?” How had he made Draco feel? 

Angry, confused at his own emotions, and regretting the day he ever let his mother talk him into being ‘civil’ with Harry Bloody Potter, Draco paced his room. On the other side of the door, Harry was apologising. Draco’s confusion stemmed from his desire to do as his mother had asked, but being too afraid of being rejected again to really do it. He knew he was being childish, hiding in his room this way, but he was unsure of what else to do. Confrontation had never been Draco’s strong suit. He either dealt with it poorly, or not at all. 

A thump sounded on Draco’s bedroom door, accompanied by Harry’s voice saying, “Please come out. Or let me in. Or _something_... I’m sorry.” And Harry really was sorry, not that Draco would ever believe him. He’d never planned on making Draco feel so badly that he had to retreat to his personal quarters, he’d just wanted to get him to respond with more than a shrug, a raised eyebrow, or a blank stare. Well, he’d certainly done that, hadn’t he? Only, just like every other time, he’d taken things too far without realising it. 

“I know you can hear me, Malfoy,” Harry muttered, his palm resting on the textured wood. “What do I have to do to get you to open the door? Shall I recite poems, like an absolute tosser? Roses are red, violets are blue. You’re a mulish, sodding prick, let me into your room.” Harry smirked at his own wit and tried to come up with another poem on the spot. He’d either piss Draco off enough to make him open up, or… well, he didn’t actually have another plan. Perhaps, after irritating Draco to this point already, he should just give it a rest, but that wasn’t how Harry and Draco did things. 

“Goosey goosey wanker, Malfoy is a plonker. Upstairs and downstairs, and even in his chambers. He acts like an old man, with very crude behaviour, so I took him by his left leg, and threw him down the stairs.” Harry didn’t bother changing the last part of the nursery rhyme because, in his opinion, it was fitting. It didn’t really have to rhyme to get the point across. 

“Had enough?” he asked, running out of ideas for how to turn poems and nursery rhymes into slights against Draco. “I can do this all night,” he lied. Thinking hard, he started another one when he got no reply. “Malfoy, Malfoy, quite the bad boy, how does your ego grow? With silver—”

The door shot open, revealing a rather disgruntled Draco on the other side. His eyes shot daggers at Harry, who smiled hugely and innocently. 

“What?” Harry asked, playing stupid just for fun. Draco narrowed his eyes and began slamming the door shut, but Harry wedged his foot in just in time. This, as it turned out, was not his brightest idea; his foot exploded with pain and he cried out, falling to the floor to cradle the injured appendage. 

“Oh, fuck,” Draco said in a panicky way, kneeling before Harry on the floor. “Are you alright? I didn’t mean to, really, your foot was just— _why_ did you do that?”

“I— wanted to… talk to you,” Harry gritted out, trying very hard to ignore his pain and failing miserably. “Fucking _hell_ this bloody _hurts!_ ”

“Well you’ve managed to injure yourself right and proper, haven’t you? Serves you right; those poems were dreadful.” Draco sighed and stood up, extending his hand down to Harry. “Get up, you complete pillock.” Although Draco was saying churlish things, his voice held nothing but worry and had come out much softer than he’d intended. 

Breathing shakily, Harry accepted Draco’s proffered hand and stood with the majority of his weight on his uninjured foot. Applying even minimal pressure to the foot brought a hiss of air through Harry’s teeth and he feared he may be dealing with broken bones. With Draco’s assistance, he hobbled his way into and across the expansive bedroom and was unkindly plopped down onto Draco’s oversized bed. 

“Wait there, and lift your foot,” Draco instructed. 

With a wave of his wand, one of the plush pillows on Draco’s bed flew down from beside Harry’s head and landed just below his raised foot. Draco disappeared into an antechamber and returned moments later with a glass jar that contained some sort of cream.

“Didn’t think you’d wind up in my bed _this_ way,” Draco mumbled under his breath as he sat gingerly beside Harry’s foot. He either thought Harry very hard of hearing, or was terrible at whispering. 

Harry was too distracted by the throbbing pain in his right foot to think too hard on Draco’s comment, however, and instead focused on not crying out in pain as Draco removed his shoe, sock, and rolled up the leg of his denims. As the large, nearly black bruises and swelling were exposed, Draco and Harry both sucked in a hiss of breath in unison. Harry felt light headed, even though he’d experienced much worse injuries in the past. He was quite sure his foot was not supposed to bend the way it currently was.

“It’s… definitely broken, Potter,” Draco sighed, and looked up at Harry, his face guilt-ridden. “I-I’m sorry.”

“Just, please, fix it,” Harry said between clenched teeth. He’d never been any good at healing spells and was relying on Draco being decent at them— and fast.

“I can’t just _Episky_ this, Potter.” Draco sounded more exhausted than Harry thought he had a right to, seeing as he wasn’t the one with a broken foot. Pushing his stray hairs back into place Draco said, “This isn’t a simple broken nose. Do you know how many bones are in a foot? I’ll assume you don’t… Twenty six. Any number of them could be broken, and I’m not going to do a Lockhart on you in an effort to appear valiant.” 

“Then…” Harry thought, which took quite a lot of effort. “I’m not going to St. Mungo’s,” he asserted. “This’ll be all over the news by tomorrow morning.”

“Let me just…” Draco unscrewed the lid of the jar and scooped out a large glob of cream with his index and middle fingers. “This will help the bruising, at least.” Glancing up at Harry first, Draco applied the white paste to Harry’s foot, slowly and gently. 

Hissing again at the contact, light though it was, Harry closed his eyes and clenched his fingers into Draco’s silk comforter. This night couldn’t be over soon enough. Why had he even attempted to make things right with Draco? He should’ve known that, just like every bloody time, things would wind up worse off than they had been. Really, by now he should know when to leave things alone.

As Draco rubbed the bruise healing paste onto Harry’s foot, he did his best to stay focused. As it was, his heart was pounding at the prospect of having broken Harry’s foot, and it was only worsened by the fact that he was essentially massaging him. For medical purposes, but still. Draco chanced a glance up at Harry’s face and found a most appealing sight before him. Though Harry was in pain, his expression could almost be mistaken for one of pleasure. His eyes were screwed shut tight, his eyebrows curved upward toward his hairline, head thrown back and teeth biting one lip firmly. His breathing was fast, his chest lifting and lowering rapidly, and his fingers clutched the bedding in clenched fists. He was in _Draco’s bed_ , looking like an utter snack in the throws of ecstacy, and all Draco could do was apply bruise healing paste to the foot that he, himself, had broken— because, Draco reminded himself, Harry was not, in fact, in any sort of ecstacy, but excruciating pain. Draco shivered and forced himself to look back down. 

“When mother finds out I’ve broken your foot…” Draco trailed off again, seemingly unable to finish a sentence proper, under pressure. “You do realise that St. Mungo’s has the ability to heal you faster than a muggle hospital?” 

“I’m aware,” Harry said, amazed at how quickly the bruises were fading, now he’d opened his eyes. “But, well, I can’t exactly walk in this condition. I’ll need… You’ll come with me, right? This _is_ your fault.”

“Is it? I’d forgotten,” Draco said, only half his usual snark present. “And, although it’s only _partially_ my fault, I will accompany you to whichever treatment facility you choose.” 

“ _Partially_ your fault? If you’d just been able to manage one kind word towards me, maybe we wouldn’t be in this situation,” Harry snapped. 

“Who’s bloody decision was it to stuff their foot into my doorway right as I’m slamming it?” Draco scoffed, looking away and screwing the lid back on the jar forcefully. “Honestly, Potter, I can hardly be held accountable for your poor decision making skills. I will take half the blame, but you have to admit that not all of it rests on my shoulders.” 

“Fine.” Harry realised that Draco was right, and that it was incredibly unfair for him to refuse culpability as well. 

“Fine?” With his signature raised brow, Draco turned back to Harry. “Good. Now that’s settled, where am I taking you?”

“Can’t you do a bandaging charm first, or something?” Harry hated how pathetic he sounded, his question coming out as more of a plea than anything. 

“Oh, yes.” Draco seemed shocked at himself for not realising he could do this sooner. Tapping his wand lightly to Harry’s foot, Draco said clearly, “ _Ferula_ ,” and bandages were conjured from nowhere, wrapping securely around Draco’s target. 

“ _Ahh,_ ” Harry sighed, his pain relieved significantly. “Home.”

“Pardon?”

“Home. I’d like to go home.”

“Potter, you can’t just go home. You need to see a healer, muggle or otherwise. My conscience will not be clear until I’ve seen you be treated.”

“I’ll go tomorrow,” Harry said, struggling into a seated position on the cushy mattress. “I’ll manage until then.”

“No, I’ll not hear of it. Hildi!” 

With a loud crack, a very aged, very hunch-backed house elf appeared beside Draco’s bed. “Master Draco?” she croaked, her large eyes gleaming up at Draco as she awaited instruction.

“Prepare the closest guest room for Mr. Potter, please. He’ll be staying here tonight. Oh, and please pop down to my lab for a pain potion, medium strength with the green label.” 

“No, Hildi, I’m not staying here—” But before he could go any further with his refusal, the elf nodded solemnly and disappeared with another crack. “Malfoy, no.”

“Potter, yes,” Draco mocked. “Do I have to go and get my mother?”

“Yes, actually, I’d like to watch her yell at you. It might make me feel better after everything that’s happened.”

“Is that right? Well then, I’ll just let her know you’re not only refusing magical treatment, but also that you’re refusing to let us care for you while you wait to see a healer.” Draco smirked and continued. “She’ll shout at me, yes, but as soon as she’s finished with me she’ll start on you. You have yet to witness my mother’s wrath when she’s worried about someone she thinks of as her child.”

“She doesn’t think of me… that way.” Harry couldn’t bring himself to describe himself as Mrs. Malfoy’s child. It had taken years for him to accept that Mrs. Weasley saw him as one of her’s. 

“Oh, but she does. Shall I prove it?” Draco stood up and began walking toward the door.

“No! _Argh!_ ” In Harry’s haste to prevent Draco going to get his mum, Harry had forgotten he had a broken foot and pressed it into the pillow it sat on. His foot twisted, sending a brutal shock of pain throughout the entire thing. Straightening his leg once more, he moaned pathetically.

Rather than continuing out of his room, Draco returned to his bedside and placed his hands on his hips. “So, staying, then?” Harry let his glare answer for him. “Right, the room should be ready by the time we get there. I’ll just levitate you.”

As Harry floated down the hallway, his back parallel to the floor and his arms crossed petulantly, he glared at the ceiling. Really, he ought to be thankful for Draco’s assistance, but he couldn’t find it in him to do so, at that moment. He was being held captive at the manor, all because he was a right git and couldn’t drop things when they became heated between himself and Draco. Sure, it was only for one night, but that didn’t change the situation or make it any better. And then, in the morning, he would be forced to go to St. Mungo’s by Mrs. Malfoy, who Harry was sure would find out about this from one of the elves. Harry had been reluctant to believe in karma, in the past, but was beginning to think maybe he should. 

“There you are,” Draco said as he lowered Harry against the guest bed. “It’s not as nice as my bed, which you were lucky to experience in the first place, but it’ll do. It’s the closest room to mine, so if you need anything I’ll be here in short order. Then again, if you value my happiness in the slightest you’ll call on a house elf instead and allow me to sleep.”

“Really?” Harry deadpanned, all good humour escaping him.

“Really.” Draco took a glass phial from the bedside table and uncorked it, helping Harry to sit before handing it to him. 

“This doesn’t look like anything Madam Pomfrey’s ever given me,” Harry said, without really thinking. 

“Because I’ve concocted this variation on my own. It’s not poison, I assure you.” There it was, the cruel undertone in Draco’s words. 

“I didn’t think it was.” Without another moment’s thought, Harry downed the entire potion in one gulp. Immediately, the pain in his foot ceased entirely. He sighed, unable to stop himself, and settled more deeply into the mattress. 

“Get some rest, Potter,” Draco said softly. “And… I really am sorry.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, feeling sleep encroaching closer by the second. “Even though you’re the arse who broke it, thank you for helping me with my foot… and for letting me have a sleepover.”

Draco snorted and took the phial from Harry’s slack hand. “You’re welcome. Oh, and I forgot to mention that this particular potion is also a sleep aid. I hope you won’t mind.”

“No, not at all.” Harry’s words came out breathy and clunky sounding, and his eyes were becoming more difficult to keep open. “You’re a real prat, you know that?”

“As if I could forget,” he heard Draco say, right before he lost consciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

As Harry slept peacefully in the bed, Draco sat, feeling like a complete creep, in the armchair he’d conjured beside the guest bed. It hadn’t been long since Harry had fallen asleep, and Draco knew he should leave, but he didn’t think he’d ever get a chance to see Harry in this peaceful state again. Harry’s jaw was a bit slack, his lips barely parted. Every so often, his facial expression would twist into one that caused him to look forlorn, and Draco wondered what it was he was dreaming of. Then, only a moment later, his face would relax, going blank. Sometimes the ghost of a smile would play on Harry’s lips, and Draco hated how it sped his heart rate. Those sleep-induced smiles only lasted several seconds, but Draco didn’t think he’d ever forget them, or the way they made his stomach feel as though billywigs had built a nest inside. 

Leaning back in the chair, Draco gazed at Harry’s foot, which was still free of bruises, albeit temporarily. By morning they’d be back, and another round of cream would need to be applied. As guilty as Draco felt— and _Merlin_ did he feel utterly condemnable— he looked forward to rubbing the bruise healing paste on Harry’s foot. 

“Salazar’s pants, why am I so bloody weird?” he whispered to himself, and rubbed both hands over his face and through his hair. 

It wasn’t as though Draco had a foot fetish. No, he simply craved any and all physical contact he could get with or from Harry. Not that that was much better, he reminded himself, as he had proven in the past that he was willing to do awful things to get the physical contact he craved. Those awful things were the reasons Harry hated Draco today, the reason Draco would never be able to tell Harry how he felt about him. And now he’d broken the man’s blasted foot, to top it all off with a lovely, red cherry. Because if there was anything Draco was brilliant at, it was making matters worse with the Boy Who Lived. 

For a moment Draco contemplated telling Harry how he felt now, while he was unconscious and there was no chance of him overhearing. He even went so far as to formulate the words he’d say, planning out a long, overly dramatic list of things he enjoyed about Harry, and how long he’d felt this way, and what Harry’s sleepy smile did to his innards. When he opened his mouth to say these things, however, nothing came out. His throat dried up instantly, and his lips wouldn’t meet to form the words. 

Sighing, Draco stood, feeling like an utter fool. There would be no point telling Harry these things, sleeping or awake. It would do no good to pour his heart and soul out to this man who he’d spent years ensuring would hate him, good and properly. 

Taking one last lingering look at Harry, Draco turned and left the guest room. If he stayed any longer, he was only bound to make himself feel worse.

 

oOo

 

The following morning, Harry woke to find the incredibly disgruntled, yet strikingly beautiful face of Narcissa Malfoy gazing down at him. So, today was going to start with more disaster, it seemed. The more awake and aware Harry became, the more pain he noticed his foot was in. Although Draco had apparently propped it up in the night, Harry had not stayed in the same position as he’d slept, and was paying for it. 

“Good morning, Harry,” Mrs. Malfoy said in a voice that did not match her demeanor, it was so cheerful. “I apparently cannot trust my son to be civil, nor to prevent our guests from being harmed in our home. Would you care to tell your side of the story?”

“It was my fault, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry began, doing his best to sit up without jostling his foot too badly. His cheeks heated in embarrassment as he told her what happened. “Draco— he wanted to be left alone, and I should’ve just, well, left him alone. I was, er, reciting some original renditions of some very old nursery rhymes— only, the lyrics were a bit rude, now that I think about it. I was trying to irritate him, to get him to talk to me. When he opened the door I pretended I hadn’t done anything wrong, and when he slammed the door I sort of, er, slipped my foot in?”

Mrs. Malfoy pursed her lips and seemed to consider Harry’s words. “So, you claim that it was your fault?”

“It was, Draco even said so last night— no, not exactly!” he corrected, seeing her disgruntled look turn momentarily to fury. “He said it was _partially_ his fault, but he was right that it was also partially mine. I have to take responsibility, too. It’s not his fault I put my foot in the door.”

“Very interesting,” she mused, her blue eyes dancing with anger. “He seems to believe that this is all his fault and has even gone so far as to say we should pay whatever bills you receive from the hospital. I’m inclined to agree with him.”

“I couldn’t accept that, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry sputtered, waving his hands wildly. “Please, I can afford any bills. You’ve been kind enough to offer me a bed in your home for the night, and Draco gave me an excellent pain potion. He even rubbed bruise removal paste on my foot, and it worked much faster than any kind I’ve used before.” Draco must’ve created that, as well, and he really should start his own business, Harry thought distractedly. 

“I’ll not hear of you spending one knut on your treatment, Harry. You’ve been through quite enough.” Mrs. Malfoy’s tone was one Harry knew he shouldn’t argue with, but then he never had been good at being tactful, had he?

“I won’t even be getting a bill, as I’m not going to St. Mungo’s,” Harry said, hoping upon hope that Mrs. Malfoy wasn’t anything like Mrs. Weasley in situations like these.

Surprisingly, however, Mrs. Malfoy only nodded, smiling in her feline-esque way. “This is true, you won’t be. I’ve sent a letter to my personal healer already. She will be here by mid-afternoon, and I will cover the cost. She is very discreet.” Personal healer? Harry hadn’t even been aware one could have a personal healer. 

“Now,” Mrs. Malfoy continued decisively, “breakfast is being sent up to you. It should be here any moment. Should you need anything, until the healer arrives, please feel free to ring this bell. And I do mean anything.” From the pocket of her pale pink robes, Mrs. Malfoy pulled a silver bell and set it on the bedside table.

Nodding her head to him, Mrs. Malfoy crossed the room to leave. Just as her hand touched the door knob, Harry remembered his manners and stuttered a frantic sounding apology for upsetting her so greatly. 

“Harry,” she said softly, turning to face him with a loving smile, “it isn’t you I’m upset with, dear. Draco, on the other hand, is not so lucky to be exempt from my displeasure. Rest, now.” And with that, she was gone.

Harry had only enough time to fluff the pillow behind his back before Draco entered his room, carrying a tray laden with all manner of breakfast foods and the same jar of bruise healing paste from the night before. The smell of bacon was tantalising to Harry, and his mouth watered as Draco came nearer. 

“Morning, Potter,” Draco said quietly, setting the tray down on Harry’s lap. “Sorry about your foot.”

“I know, and it’s fine,” Harry said, picking up a piece of perfectly cooked bacon and stuffing it in his mouth. 

“Is there anything I can get you?”

“Er, no,” Harry said with his mouth full, forgetting propriety yet again. Swallowing, he tried once more. “No, thanks. I appreciate the breakfast. My compliments to the house elf who cooked this up.”

“I’m not a house elf, but you’re very welcome.” Draco smirked a bit at Harry’s obvious shock.

“ _You_ cooked this?”

“As was part of my punishment for breaking your foot. Mother seems to think I’m unable to learn lessons of my own accord, so I’m to be your personal ‘house elf’ until the healer has come and gone.” There was a bitterness underlying Draco’s words, though it was clear he was struggling to contain it. 

“That’s ridiculous!” Harry stammered, forgetting his breakfast for a moment. “Wait, is that what this bell is about?”

“I’m afraid so, Potter. If you ring that at any point today, I’ll be alerted and drop whatever it is I’m doing to come assist you. With anything.” Draco clenched his jaw and gave Harry a look that he couldn’t quite discern the meaning of. 

“Well… Well, I don’t need your help,” Harry decided, unsure of what else to say. “I can manage on my own until the healer gets here.”

“Good, then I’ll just re-apply the paste and be going,” Draco said, and pulled summoned an armchair from close by. 

Saying nothing, Harry ate his food and watched as Draco sat down and began unraveling the bandages on Harry’s foot. They both winced at the sight of the bruises, making their comeback and looking twice as bad as they had the previous evening.

With tight lips, Draco opened the jar and scooped out some paste, applying it with a feather light touch. Harry paid very close attention to Draco’s face as he rubbed on the paste and was awash with guilt of his own at the pitiable expression that formed there. As much as he wanted to tell Draco that this wasn’t his fault, Harry thought doing so might cause more harm than anything. Not to mention it wasn’t true. This was, in part, Draco’s fault, but Harry wished he wouldn’t look so damned remorseful.

After the paste had been evenly distributed and the bruises began fading away to pale pink flesh, Draco cast another bandaging charm and stood up. 

“All set, then,” he intoned, looking at his handiwork. “How does your foot feel now?”

“Better, now that you’ve redone the paste,” Harry said around a mouthful of scrambled egg. Draco’s only response was to look at Harry in mild disgust, then masking his expression a moment later with a blank one.

Before Harry could think of something else to say, Draco was walking briskly to the door of the room, as though he couldn’t stand to be here any longer. Harry couldn’t exactly blame him, he supposed. 

“Thanks, Malfoy,” Harry said, but Draco didn’t reply before he had shut the door behind him. 

Finally alone, Harry focused solely on his breakfast, amazed at how well Draco could cook. Harry hadn’t even known Draco _could_ cook, and in fact had assumed that he couldn’t at all; if house elves were always doing the cooking for someone, why would they ever need to learn how to do it themselves? Regardless, Harry was very glad that Draco could survive without the assistance of house elves, and glad, too, that he was so skilled at cooking. The bacon was crisped to perfection, without being too dry. The eggs weren’t too runny or overcooked, and the porridge had the most lovely hint of cinnamon, maple, and butter. Harry ate everything, finishing it off with the glass of orange juice, which he realised was freshly squeezed upon his first gulp. Draco had outdone himself, truly, and Harry appreciated his work with every bite and moan of approval. 

His breakfast gone and his tray placed at the foot of the bed, Harry leaned back against the pillows, resting his eyes for a moment. That was when he realised, to his chagrin, that he hadn’t used the loo yet that morning. He was well aware that the first wee of the day was one that came on strong and refused to be held, but he told himself that today would be different. It had to be, because there was no way he was ringing that bell, for any reason. Furthermore, there was no way he was going to allow Draco to assist him with using the bathroom, of all things. 

Time seemed to crawl by, and his bladder grew more impatient with every passing moment. Finally, Harry was unable to pretend he could hold his bodily urges any longer and sat up in bed. He still would not ring the bell, but maybe he didn’t need to. He placed his feet on the floor, being careful to treat his right foot very carefully. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to stand up, placing all of his weight onto his left foot. At first, he struggled to stay upright, but after a few seconds he found his centre of balance and grinned, feeling very satisfied indeed. He could do this. 

There was no way he could walk on his right foot, but he was a strong bloke; hopping would be easy enough, he was sure. And so he hopped on his left foot, arms reached out on each side to keep him balanced, and slowly made his way to the door of the guest room. When he reached the door, after what seemed an eternity, he paused to lean against it, already out of breath. His incommunicable need to wee was growing ever stronger, and he pleaded with his body not to fuck this up. 

Opening the door, Harry hopped out to the corridor. Suddenly, he was hit with a wave of dread; he still had no bloody idea where anything was in this god-awful place. Even with his hopping abilities, he would never manage to find a loo in time to relieve himself, not if he had to peek into every room he passed. And then, even if he did manage to find a loo, he doubted he’d be able to find his way back to the guest room. 

“Damn it,” Harry growled, realising his predicament was worse than he’d previously thought. 

Turning around, Harry swallowed his pride and began hopping back across the room. He _really_ had to wee, but he knew he’d never manage to do so in the appropriate location unless he rang the blasted silver bell. 

Completely knackered and dripping with sweat, Harry practically fell back into bed. His left thigh was throbbing with the pain of overexertion, He’d managed to avoid banging his foot against anything, but he hadn’t anticipated how tiring hopping could be. Then again, this room was very large. Too large, if he had anything to say about it.

Wasting no time, Harry rang the silver bell. It was something he’d promised he wouldn’t do, and he hoped Draco could forgive him. When Draco opened the door not even half a minute later, he showed no hint of whether he was bothered by Harry’s disturbance of his morning.

“Yes, Potter?” he asked, his tone neutral, if a bit tired. 

“I, er… I have to use the loo,” Harry said, his cheeks heating. 

“Why are you so sweaty?” Draco asked, confusion morphing his face.

“I was hopping.”

“Hopping? Why were you hopping? Don’t tell me you thought you could get to the bathroom on your own.” 

“Malfoy, I’m about to piss on this expensive bed, so please stop asking questions and help me,” Harry said, a bit too forcefully. He wasn’t trying to be a knob, but he really, truly, didn’t think he could hold his bladder much longer. 

“Right,” Draco said, all business, and came to put his arm around Harry, letting Harry’s arm fall over his shoulder. 

Supporting Harry’s weight, they made their way to Draco’s room and to the bathroom connected— because of course Draco had his own personal bathroom— as fast as possible. Even at that pace, Harry hardly managed to undo his trousers before he was urinating. The door to the loo clicked shut just before Harry had unzipped his denims, and he sighed in massive, indescribable relief at not only the privacy, but also the fading feeling of panic that went along with nearly wetting one’s self. 

Why was it that he seemed to only come this close to wetting himself at Malfoy Manor? He didn’t have this problem anywhere else, and he hated to think he was reverting to toddler mannerisms at twenty five years old. No, it must be due to the sheer size of the house, and the fact that he had no idea where he was within the house at any given time. 

“I’m done,” Harry called, after doing up his trousers once more and hopping to the sink to wash his hands. Draco cracked open the door a bit, as though he were nervous to open it fully. “Really, I am.”

“Can’t be too safe, Potter.” 

With Draco’s much appreciated help and an empty bladder, Harry made his way back to the guest room. As Draco helped him lay back down, it struck Harry anew just how odd his current situation was. Without really meaning to, he started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Draco asked suspiciously. 

“Nothing, just… you broke my foot.” As Harry laughed, Draco continued looking at him stone-faced and a bit concerned. If this was the sort of thing Harry found funny, Draco wasn’t sure he did, in fact, enjoy Harry’s sense of humour. 

“Yes, very amusing, Potter. I think perhaps your brain was addled in the war more than we’d previously thought.” Harry snorted at Draco’s smarmy response, but Draco simply rolled his eyes. “Do you need anything before I go? I was in the middle of… things,” he settled on, not wanting to tell Harry that he had been about to have a wank in the shower. Then again, it might have been worth the embarrassment just to see the look on Harry’s face.

“No, I’m alright,” Harry said, still grinning. Sucks to Draco for not seeing the humour in the situation. Harry rather preferred laughing to feeling sorry for himself, in any case. 

Nodding, Draco left Harry in peace. Very boring peace. Harry resorted to playing with the shadows on the wall with his wand, which soon lost his interest. 

For several of the most uneventful hours of Harry’s life, he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about everything that had happened in his recent visits to Malfoy Manor. Draco was back to being somewhat cold again, it seemed, so all his efforts the previous day were for nothing. All of his efforts every time he visited seemed to have been wasted. Harry wondered if he and Draco could ever really consider each other anything besides enemies at truce, and wondered why he wished this to happen so badly. In truth, Harry wasn’t sure what he’d even want to call Draco. Friend? Unlikely. Though, it did sound quite like something he’d want very much. He wondered what it would be like for Draco to smile at him the way he’d done with Nott, Zabini, and Parkinson in school. He wondered what it would be like to receive compliments from Draco, or to be able to call on him in a time of need. These things were not bound to ever happen, and Harry didn’t know why he yearned for them to so very badly. 

He was lost in thoughts about a nonexistent friendship when a knocking sounded on the door to the guest room. It was the healer, accompanied by Mrs. Malfoy. The healer asked him a series of questions with a very stern expression. When she’d finished with that, she removed the bandages Draco had put there and inspected Harry’s foot for longer than he thought was necessary. By the time she left, Harry had new bandaged and a very muggle looking orthopedic boot on his broken foot, with instructions to wear it for six weeks. 

“Why couldn’t she just cast a spell?” Harry asked Mrs. Malfoy. 

“The break isn’t that bad, Harry, so time is all it will take to heal it. Time and structure. A spell might heal the bones incorrectly. They just aren’t accurate enough.”

Harry nodded, resigning himself to his booted fate. “Can I go home, now?”

“Certainly, although I wish you’d consider staying until you’ve healed.” Harry just looked at her, not wanting to offend her by saying that he would rather stay in a dog’s cage than here for six weeks. “Ring your bell and Draco will be here shortly to help you use the Floo.”

“Er, no, I think I can walk,” Harry protested, beginning to stand. The boot made him feel lopsided, but he experienced very little pain, so that was a great improvement. The healer had explained that there were charms woven into the boot to make walking pain-free, and he was very glad for that as he began walking toward the door beside Mrs. Malfoy.

“If you’re sure,” Mrs. Malfoy said, sounding as if she were not convinced. Instead of arguing with Harry, however, she simply took his arm and showed him to the nearest fireplace. “I’m so sorry about this, Harry, dear,” she sighed, handing him the pot of Floo powder. “Please don’t let this experience deter you from joining us again for game night. Although, I don’t blame you if it does. It doesn’t seem as though game nights end well, between you and Draco.”

“It’s alright,” Harry said, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “I’ll be back next week.” He wasn’t finished working on Draco. Hopefully, if he played his cards right, he could formulate a better plan for getting Draco to open up to him.

 

oOo

 

“You may want to reconsider that choice,” Draco said, looking down at the map with pursed lips and raised eyebrows. 

“I’m allowed to use seduction, you said,” Harry laughed. So far, this game night wasn’t going too badly. Draco seemed to have softened at some point since he’d broken Harry’s foot, making conversation flow more smoothly. It helped, too, that Harry had been doing his best to make Draco laugh all evening. This was his most successful plan as of yet, and he wondered why it had taken him so long to figure that out.

“Yes, but mostly people use that as a way to rob people, or to benefit themselves in some way. What good is seducing a bridge troll when he’s already beheaded all your gnome mates?”

“Maybe he won’t behead me?” Harry offered, shrugging helplessly. Draco sputtered and began laughing— really laughing, and Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever heard that sound come from Draco’s mouth before. It was… not a bad sound, not at all, Harry decided. In fact, it was just as good as Harry had pictured it while he had lay in bed waiting for the healer.

“You boys are absolutely ridiculous, and I’m going to bed,” Mrs. Malfoy said, shaking her head. Harry was worried he’d offended her, but when he looked up at her, she was smiling softly, her eyes filled with fondness. In her mind, she was thanking Merlin for the fact that Draco seemed to genuinely be warming up to Harry, finally. It had only taken fourteen years, after all.

“Goodnight, Mrs. M,” Harry said, grinning up at her sheepishly. She reached over toward him and swept his curls off his forehead in a loving way, and Harry unconsciously leaned into her touch. Mrs. Weasley was the only other person who did things like that to him, and it felt just as good coming from Mrs. Malfoy, though Harry couldn’t pinpoint why that was. 

“Goodnight, darlings,” Mrs. Malfoy said, and leaned over to kiss Draco’s forehead. “Behave, you two,” she added sternly. “Let’s not have a repeat of the last time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said, nodding once. “It wouldn’t do to have two broken feet. One’s enough for me.”

“Whatever you say, mother,” Draco drawled in disinterest, though his lips twitched a bit in his effort not to smirk. 

“ _Roll one D-ten for seduction,_ ” the map told Harry once everything had quieted down.

“Alright, time to kiss a bridge troll,” Harry said as he picked up his D-ten. He rolled a nine. 

“ _Your attempt at seduction is very successful,_ ” the map narrated. “ _The bridge troll is helpless to your elvish charm and beauty. As you lean in close to kiss him, he loses footing and slips off the side of the bridge, falling to his death, and allowing you safe passage across._ ”

Both Harry and Draco burst into laughter, wiping tears of mirth from their cheeks by the time they had calmed enough to comment on the scene that had just taken place in their campaign. 

“I don’t remember anything like this happening when I was a kid playing this game,” Draco said, barely keeping his giggles under control. 

“Yeah, this doesn’t seem very child-friendly,” Harry chuckled. “By the way, what was the special gift you wanted to give my character?” He’d nearly forgotten Draco’s promise, and was glad he’d managed not to.

Raising a brow in a smirk, Draco replied, “You’ll just have to wait and see, Potter, won’t you?”

“Will you call me Harry, already?” Harry wasn’t sure why that was what he’d said, but now that it was out, it seemed right.

“I wasn’t aware you wanted me to,” Draco said slowly, visibly thrown off. 

“As long as I can call you Draco.”

“Alright, deal… Harry.”

“Draco.” 

Making a face, Draco said, “It sounds… interesting, coming from your lips. Do it again.” It really shouldn’t turn Draco on, hearing Harry say his name so casually, but he couldn’t stop the feeling from arising. At least nothing else arose at that moment, Draco thought thankfully.

“No, you’re making this weird,” Harry laughed. Deciding he didn’t mind making it weird as well, he said again, “Draco.”

“Harry,” Draco said, his voice going husky, but his eyes and smirk very teasing. 

“Alright, this is getting to be too much for me.” Harry’s lips were twitching in their effort to hold back a grin. “Is it your turn yet?”

“No, the map will tell us when it’s my turn, as you should know by now.” Shaking his head, Draco added, “I don’t know how Granger ever put up with you. Make your next move.”

“I cross the bridge fully and continue on the path I’ve been walking, due South.”

“Are you following me?” Draco asked, smug. 

“Only always.”

“Yeah, since sixth year, it seems.”

“Not true, I took a break since the war ended. Not, you know, consciously, but… well, you understand.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever understand you, Potter.”

“Harry,” Harry corrected.

“ _Harry,_ ” Draco practically moaned, and even as Harry laughed it off, his face turned red and he knew it. Draco moaning his name, even facetiously, was an even better sound than Draco’s laughter.

“ _Through the wood you wander, unimpeded, for quite some time. Your walk is peaceful, the wind blows gently through the trees, adding a comfortable ambiance to the forest noises. The scent of lilacs and wild roses reaches you, putting you at ease, and you begin to stop paying attention to your surroundings_ —”

“Oh, here we go,” Harry sighed.

“— _until suddenly you realise you’ve managed to put yourself in the midst of a blazing hot, wild forest fire. Up ahead, you see an elven man, who stands in a part of the wood that no longer burns, but smoulders. What is your course of action?_ ”

“What the fuck?” Harry asked as he looked down at the map. His character stood near the place Draco’s character had started off at, but surely the fire would’ve gone out by now, wouldn’t it? “Why is it still burning?”

Shrugging, Draco replied, “My only guess is that it’s due to the magical origin of the fire. Maybe curse fires last longer than their natural counterpart.”

“Thanks for the forest fire, Malfoy,” Harry said sarcastically.

“Draco,” Draco corrected with yet another smirk. “And it wasn’t me, it was the mermaid.”

“Yeah, well, if you hadn’t pierced her with your stupid fishing hook and called her a minger for being _understandably_ upset, she wouldn’t have started the fire. So, still your fault.”

“ _Your flesh begins to bubble as you simply stand in your place, allowing the flames to reach your exposed skin. Bits of your clothing have already been sacrificed to the ever-hungry flames._ ”

“Fuck— okay! ‘Help! Please!’ I call to the man and cast a fire-repellent charm.”

“ _Roll two D-tens for fire-repellent charm strength._ ” Harry rolled his dice, only managing to roll a three, total. “ _To your chagrin, the spell falters. Erevan’s turn._ ” The map paused and then continued, telling Draco’s story this time. “ _Ahead of you, through the scorched trees, you see an elven man. He stands in the part of the wood that roars with fire, burning along with the trees around him. Nearly nude, the flames licking hungrily at his clothing, he calls for your help, desperate for a saviour. What is your course of action?_ ”

“I always wanted to play saviour, for once,” Draco said, his begrudgingly adorable smirk making Harry’s stomach feel strange. “And look who it is I get to save. ‘Don’t worry, you poor, helpless soul,’ I tell the man. ‘I’m here to rescue you, your elven knight in leather armor.’ And I attempt to save his life.”

“ _Roll two D-ten to save his life,_ ” the map directed, and Draco followed suit. He rolled sixteen, punched the air and hissed ‘yes,’ excitedly. “ _Casting your most advanced fire-shield charm, you brave the burning wood to rescue the half-dehydrated elf. He falls to the ground, unable to hold himself up any longer. What is your course of action?_ ”

“I toss the pathetic bastard over my shoulder and carry him out of the fire,” Draco responded easily, pretending with all his might that he wasn’t giddy at the prospect of saving Harry, even fictionally.

“ _As smoke begins to fill your lungs, you carry the fallen elf out of the wood. He is unconscious, a dead weight on your back. Your legs begin to weaken as you near sanctuary, and, once free of the flames at your back, you collapse to the forest floor. Your energy is depleted, almost completely, but if you stay here for long, you’re sure to suffocate._ ”

“Shit, we’re dead. Let’s see… with my remaining power, I revive the other elf in the hopes that he will return my favour and save both our lives.” Hoping Harry would take the hint, he placed both their character’s lives in Harry’s hands.

The map requested that Draco roll for this, and as if the dice were charmed in Draco’s favor, he rolled a nineteen and successfully revived Theren. This meant, however, that Erevan fell unconscious. 

“Don’t worry, Draco, I’ll save you. Just like always,” Harry teased. Draco, however, didn’t seem to find this very funny.

“Yes, just like...” he muttered bitterly. “Always the saved, never the saviour.”

“What are you talking about? You just saved my life, not even three minutes ago. You nearly killed yourself in the process. So, yeah, I’d say you played the saviour, there.”

“In life, though, not in a vapid board game.” Draco crossed his arms and turned his face away, his jaw muscles twitching as he clenched his teeth together. He was aware that he was being melodramatic, but it hurt, knowing just how useless he tended to be in life, whereas Harry shone as the hero nearly every time the world needed one. “I’m sure it’s easy for you to overlook your heroism, as it’s a near constant thing. It’s been rubbed in my face since the day we met.”

“You don’t mean less than me because you weren’t the hero.” Becoming uncomfortable, Harry spoke in a petulant way. He hated it when people referred to him as a hero, even if he knew he had been one.

“No, I mean less because I was the villain.” Shaking his head, Draco began putting the game away. “I think I’m finished for the night.”

“Seriously?”

Draco’s eyes flashed as he looked up at Harry through his pale eyelashes. “Yes, seriously.”

Shaking his head, Harry thought about how he could fix this, and maybe avoid Draco feeling this way in the future. Now that Harry knew how pleasant Draco could be as company, he wasn’t fond of the times when Draco reverted to his frigid, distant self. If they could just get everything out in the open, maybe Draco would stop feeling so badly every time Harry’s successes were mentioned. 

Deciding that, yes, they really did need to talk things out, even years after the war was done and over, Harry squared his shoulders and prepared to do one of the most uncomfortable things he thought he’d done in years: discuss his feelings about the past with Draco bloody Malfoy.

“Here’s the deal,” he began forcefully, looking straight into Draco’s eyes and holding him with his gaze. “We’re going to rehash everything. I don’t care if you have to yell at me, or hex me, or whatever— we’re going to settle whatever remains of our feud right here, right now.”

“Oh, really? You’re just going to force me to, what? Talk about our feelings? Do you honestly think there’s a point in that?”

“Yes.” Harry raised his eyebrows, daring Draco to back out of this, to disagree. “I have a feeling we’ll never be able to grow together in any way until we do this, Draco.”

“And you’d want that? To grow together?” What was Harry playing at? “What do you mean?”

“I mean— only...” Blimey, why did Harry have to be so terrible with words? He took a deep breath and tried again. “I mean, we’ll always have some residual negativity towards each other. We’ll never grow from being enemies, or from feeling…” Jealous? Hateful? “The way that we feel right now,” he settled with, not wanting to presume he knew how Draco felt. 

“The way we feel right now,” Draco echoed, trying to pinpoint just how he felt at that moment, and finding he was unable to.

Something warred inside Draco as Harry nodded once, firm and decisive. On the one hand, he’d always wanted to establish a friendship— at the very least— with Harry, ever since he was a boy, and Harry was probably right that this was the only way. After everything that had happened between them, they couldn’t just ‘start fresh’ without reopening every wound they’d caused each other, and Draco didn’t mean sliced flesh and broken feet. 

On the other hand, Draco had a very low pain tolerance, physical or otherwise. This was bound to be a bloody affair, this ‘rehashing’ of things— probably mentally, but possibly also physically. The two of them had been known to try and hurt each other when aggravated. Then again, the two of them were also adults now, and not hormonal teenagers. Their frontal lobes were now fully developed, and they had much better control over their emotions and decision making. At least, Draco liked to think he did, and Harry’s first meal at the manor proved his capacity for restraining himself.

“Alright, fine,” Draco said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. The clock on the mantle of the fireplace read that it was past ten, but Draco felt as though it was hours later. “How do we do this?”

“I don’t… I’m not really sure,” Harry admitted, a bit embarrassed.

“This was your bloody idea, Potter, so figure it out.”

Quickly, Harry thought about what Hermione would do in this situation, and an idea struck him. “Okay. You list the things that have bothered you about me in the past— and don’t filter yourself, yeah? We have to get _everything_ out, or else we’re just going to continue falling back into our pattern of hating each other.”

One of Draco’s eyebrows raised as he considered this. “You want me to list every single thing that bothers me about you? Are you sure? Because I distinctly recall you reacting badly the last time I attempted that.”

“I don’t think you really meant any of that,” Harry said, shrugging. “You said so yourself in your letter. And if you did mean those things, then we’ll settle it all tonight, anyway. Don’t worry; I’ll get my turn, too.”

“And how is ripping each other apart going to fix any-fucking-thing? Seems as though this will just cause us both to get offended and run off to our little safe spaces to lick our wounds.”

“You’ll see. I’ve got a plan.” Harry hoped he could prove Draco wrong.

Huffing dramatically, Draco said, “Hope it’s a good one. Alright, where to start.” For a moment, Draco eyed Harry, trying to think of some complaint he’d held back all this time. Finally, he settled on, “Your hair. It’s fucking awful, all over the place. You should learn how to use a hairbrush every once in a while.”

“Come on, you can do better than that.” Harry already knew Draco hated his hair, and this wasn’t the sort of thing he’d been picturing in this scenario. 

“I’m getting to it, Potter, be patient. Oh, and that’s another thing— you have no patience. Everything has to happen _right now,_ for you. It’s annoying. Almost as annoying as the way you strutted around Hogwarts like you owned the place, showing up late for class whenever you pleased and essentially telling the teachers to fuck off when they reprimanded you for it.

“You’re so fucking smug, all the time— so full of yourself— and you never seem to realise when you’re hurting the people around you. You’re everyone’s hero and you just take it for granted. Everyone’s always waxing poetic about how _great_ and _wonderful_ you are, but they’ve never been left bleeding to death on the bathroom floor because of you, have they?” Draco was on a roll, now, his face twisting into its old sneer, and while Harry had always assumed this expression was an angry one, he could now see the pain beneath its exterior. How could he have missed that before? It wasn’t even buried deeply; it was right there, in Draco’s eyes, how much he hurt. “Yeah, I bet their tune would change rather quickly, had they been in my position. 

“I barely managed to survive that, you realise, and what did you do? You didn’t spare a passing thought for me. You flourished, at every turn, and never looked back, while I withered under the pressure of my family and the Dark Lord’s expectations. Always, I was being cut down, either by my you or the teachers— and at home it was no better. I was surrounded by countless bloody Death Eaters— not to mention the Dark Lord himself— who took up every sanctuary I’d thought I’d had here, ready to report on me if I showed too much how I really felt. And did you care? Did you ever once look at me and wonder if I was worth saving like the rest of the people you took the time for? No, because I’m an insolent little prat, aren’t I? I’m cruel, bigoted, and hateful, not worth anyone’s time, but especially not yours. It seemed you had time to protect nearly everyone else around you, whether they deserved it or not… except me.

“I know I was a horrible child. My father told me regularly. I was too much, for everyone except mother— no, even her sometimes. But it never hurt too badly, being too much, until it came to you, and I’ve never been able to figure out why that is.” 

Closing his eyes tightly, Draco took a deep breath and tried hard not to cry. Behind his eyes had started the tell-tale burning that came just before tears, but he couldn’t let Harry see him be weak, not after he’d bared his soul for him. His voice shaking, he carried on. 

“I thought and did a lot of wrong things, growing up— believe me, nobody knows this better than I do— and there’s no excuse for that. I’m aware of my own faults, haunted by them daily. What I wasn’t aware of was how irredeemable that made me, by your standards. So, you see, I did matter less. You, and everyone around you, made that painfully clear. I’ve always mattered less than you. You were so bloody perfect all the time, and I—” Draco’s breath hitched, here, and he stopped attempting to go on. If he did, he really would begin crying, and he refused to do so. 

For several long moments, where only the ticking of the clock and Draco’s heavy, laboured breathing could be heard, Harry ruminated over Draco’s words. They’d hurt, of course, there was no denying that. Hearing how Draco felt about him cut him right in his pride, but that was easily set aside when Harry considered how much Draco had been hurt in order to be able to say those words at all. Yes, Draco was a right fucking prat, and he apparently knew that. They both knew there was no reasonable excuse for the way he’d acted in school. Still, Harry kept thinking back to Ron’s theory, which he decided was effectively proven correct. Harry thought of Ron’s theory that Draco’s meanness was just a front, and knew it to be true. How often had Draco been hurting, and instead of letting someone know, he’d lashed out? Why had no one explained to him that there was a healthier, more productive way of dealing with his emotions? 

“Are you finished?” Harry said, his voice fading in and out from disuse as well as pent up emotions. Draco nodded, saying nothing. “Okay, then it’s my turn.” Harry took a moment to transform his sadness and pity into anger. It wasn’t difficult to do, as he’d had a lot of practice. “Since you started with my hair, I’ll start with yours. It’s too neat. It would be one thing if your parents still forced you to keep your hair slicked back and looking like a knob, but you’re twenty five years old, now. Give yourself a bit of room to fucking loosen up, yeah? Maybe if your hair wasn’t so orderly and uptight, you’d realise you can take the large stick out of your arse. You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to just—” Here, Harry stopped and narrowed his eyes. What if he did? What was the worst that could happen?

Completely taken aback by Harry’s sudden lunge, Draco was a bit too slow to avoid the hands that tangled into his hair. Draco stilled, frozen as Harry completely ruined his carefully shaped, pompadour, not bothering to be gentle with the movements of his fingers. Some hair felt as though it got ripped out in Harry’s efforts, but mostly it felt… really good, having someone else’s hands in his hair. Draco wondered how it would feel if Harry were to be tender with him instead and yearned to know.

Sitting back on the floor, Harry crossed his arms and inspected Draco’s almost chin-length hair. Swept back, it had seemed much shorter, but now that Harry had parted it and let it out from its charmed-in-place position, he saw that it was cut to be short in the back and longer in the front. Draco’s hair was a-symmetrical in the front, framing his face perfectly. It sharpened his cheek bones, but softened almost all his other features. Harry was surprised by how much more appealing Draco looked with his hair mussed, and even more surprised by how silky Draco’s hair was. It was so soft that Harry hadn’t really wanted to stop touching it. 

“T-that’s better,” Harry said, trying to gather up the steam to keep insulting Draco. It was hard, seeing how truly stunning the man across from him was, to think of all the terrible things that man done. So Harry looked away, and memories flooded into the forefront of his mind. “You say that I’m full of myself, but have you ever analysed your own behaviour? Who the fuck walks up to a hippogriff and calls it ugly? Someone with a lot of nerve, who has no regard for others, that’s who. Someone who doesn’t give a damn about the consequences of his actions— someone like you. And then you had the audacity to blame Buckbeak and Hagrid for your own shitty choice, nearly getting Buckbeak killed. And on Hagrid, did you _really_ have to try so hard to get him fired? Why couldn’t you have just asked to drop his class? Wait, I know; it’s because you love making other people’s lives as miserable as yours. You had no way of fixing your own situation, so you took out your frustration by fucking with everyone else. You say I didn’t care what sort of pain I put other people through, how I hurt them— well you’re one to bloody talk, aren’t you? It wasn’t good enough for you, making my life absolute hell, was it? No, you had to go and make my friends’ life hell, too. And if I remember it right, I never curb stomped your face and left you alone on a departing train, did I? Oh, and sorry I cut you up so badly, I just wasn’t sure how else to respond to being _Crucio’ed_ , for fuck’s sake—”

“I wasn’t actually going to do it,” Draco interrupted, shame coating his words.

“How was I supposed to know that?” Harry shouted, throwing out his arms. “You’d been acting weird all year, and now I know why, but at the time I just thought it was your Death Eater activities making you seem more suspicious. I had no idea you were struggling so much with everything you were forced to do, so when I found you crying in the bathroom, I didn’t know what to think. And then you attacked me... what was I meant to do in that situation? Just let you torture me?

“That’s just it, though,” Harry said, a harsh laugh accompanying his words, “you always expect everyone to make exceptions for you— whether it’s because of your father’s influence, your money, or just because you’re a spoiled brat— but you never think about how difficult it is for others to make those exceptions. And on top of that, you act like it’s everyone else’s fault that you’re so unhappy in life, but don’t look for healthy ways to deal with your emotions. That’s most of what I gathered from your rant: you were sad, too wretched and angry to handle on your own, but you never looked for a way to deal with it properly, you just took it out on everyone else and left it at that. And we’re just supposed to accept that? _I’m_ just supposed to take the blame for your shitty coping skills? I’ve been abused before, Malfoy, and I know what it’s like to feel unloved and unwanted, but I’ve never _once_ gone and made it my life’s mission to fuck with someone else until I felt better.” Harry ignored the surfacing memory of the time he’d goaded Dudley just to feel better, right before those dementors had attacked. In Harry’s opinion, Dudley had earned it. Then again, Draco had probably felt everyone else had deserved his goading, too. Regardless, Harry continued, not letting himself lose steam. “That’s a ‘you’ thing. You can’t be upset with me all because you never learned emotional maturity.”

“You know what it’s like to be unloved and unwanted?” Draco asked, sneering and scornful. “Right, the boy with unlimited sources of love and adoration, the boy who was immediately adopted by the Weasleys— only one of _the most loving families_ in all of Great Britain— felt unloved and unwanted. Pull the other fucking one.”

“You don’t know what it was like, before I came to Hogwarts. You have no god damn clue,” Harry growled, his anger building. Maybe his plan wasn’t such a good one, after all; at that moment, all he wanted was to put his hands around Draco’s throat and squeeze. He wouldn’t, but Christ did he want to.

“Oh yeah? Tell me, then. If your life was so bloody awful, then fill me in.” Draco scoffed. As if Harry’s upbringing could compare to the way Draco’s father treated him. “I’ll bet your aunt and uncle never used Unforgivables on you starting from age five, did they? Oh, wait, they were muggles. What sort of punishment could a muggle possible dish out that compares even slightly?”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Harry growled. “No, they never did, but they found ways to make sure I knew they didn’t give a fuck about me, that I was a burden on their perfectly normal lives. Do you know what it’s like to beg, crying for even a bit of comfort from the only maternal figure in your life, only to be shoved away and ignored, time and again? Do you know what it’s like to be called ‘the boy’ for so long that you didn’t even know your own name? Do you know what my ‘bedroom’ was, until I was eleven years old? A bloody cupboard under the stairs. I didn’t even have room to stretch my legs by the time they let me have Dudley’s old room— the smallest bedroom in the house. And the only reason they let me have it was because they thought Dumbledore was watching them, that they’d get in trouble for child abuse if they continued keeping me in the cupboard.

“That lavish meal your mother’s elves made for us when I came for dinner that first time? Yeah, that probably amounts to about how much I ate per year. And say what you will about the clothes I wear today, but know that they’re a huge improvement when compared to the dyed-grey rags I wore back then, all hand-me-downs from my fat-arse cousin. Never did manage to grow into those, but with how little they fed me, it’s no wonder. Ever think about why I was so short and small, growing up? Well, now you know.” Harry was shaking, by that point, but couldn’t seem to stop himself. “The entire neighborhood, all my teachers, all the kids at school, thought I was a child criminal, thanks to my aunt and uncle. Never had a birthday party until after Hogwarts, never knew the truth about my mum and dad’s death until Hagrid told me.” At Draco’s shocked expression, Harry said, “Oh, yeah! Yeah, my aunt and uncle told me they’d died in a car accident. They couldn’t have me knowing anything about my magical connections, or else I’d risk infecting them with my freak nature.”

“Merlin, Potter, what an excellent pity party you throw. Your broken foot really adds to the full picture.” Draco tried to sound biting, but he couldn’t quite manage it; hearing about Harry’s childhood struck a chord in him, and compunction combined with the strongest hatred he’d ever felt— directed at Harry’s aunt and uncle— surged through his chest. He hadn’t known, and yet Draco had bothered to compare his father’s treatment of Draco to Harry’s family’s treatment of him. How could one compare trauma? He realised, then, for the first time, that maybe one couldn’t.

“Yeah, I’m just great at pity parties. Woo,” Harry deadpanned, hating how cruel Draco could be sometimes. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Draco stuttered quietly. He stared down at his long fingers and waited for Harry’s response.

“You’re what?” Harry struggled to believe how quickly Draco had gone from foul and nasty to mindful and contrite. Then he remembered what Ron had said. The nastiness was a front, as usual.

“I’m sorry I assumed that you were treated better than you really were, as a child. It was wrong of me. I’m sorry for a lot, actually, but we’d be up for days if I went over every reason, so just— I apologise. I’m sorry.” Draco paused for a moment, then added, “That extends to your friends, too. Granger and, well, all the Weasleys, but Ronald in particular.”

“Never thought I’d hear you apologise for anything you’d done in the past, Malfoy, especially not to my friends. I’m impressed.”

“There’s a lot I don’t say.” He paraphrased his words from the time Harry had discovered his lab, leaving it at that and knowing Harry would understand.

“Yeah, well, the things you do say are usually not that pleasant to hear. Thank you. You’re… you’re forgiven, at least in my opinion. And I’m sorry, too.”

“As if you have a reason to be. All the things I listed that bother me about you are just petty, unimportant things. You’re the one who deserve an apology, not me.”

“You’re wrong; if I did things to hurt you— and we both know I have— then you do deserve an apology, regardless of what you think, or how petty you think your grievances are. So, I’m sorry, Malfoy— er, Draco.”

Draco closed his eyes and allowed Harry’s words to brush over his flesh, sinking into his every pore and soaking deep into his bones. As he did this, he let go of all the things he’d hated Harry for over the years. All the angry words, the fights, the hexes they’d cast, the glares that could kill— all of it. When he’d let it all go, at least for now, he found that all that was left was admiration. He admired Harry, for all that he was, all that Draco wasn’t capable of being. He admired Harry for his bravery, his tenacity, his ability to see through Draco’s uptight pretense and get to the bare structure that was Draco, at his core. 

“Thank you,” Draco whispered, opening his eyes and meeting Harry’s green ones. 

“Any time,” Harry replied with a crooked little smile that threatened to seal Draco’s lungs closed. “Now, I think, we’d better get to the good parts, shall we?”

Letting his lips curve upwards as well, Draco said, “You first?”

“Sure, why not?” Harry said, sighing. Of course Draco wanted him to go first, not that Harry could blame him. “Alright, let’s start with… your hair,” he began, mirroring Draco’s smirk. “It’s much better, let loose like that. You should wear it that way more often, it suits you.”

“Thanks, I’ve just had it done, you see,” Draco said, mockingly. There was no harshness, to it, however, and Harry savoured this.

“It’s… it’s really soft. I wasn’t expecting that. There’s a lot about you that I’ve come to realise, none of it expected. Like the way you light up when you talk about things you enjoy. When you were explaining Your Adventure to me it was like I was talking to a different person entirely. Your eyes were so open, instead of guarded, like I’m used to seeing from you. Your smile is… It’s much better than your sneer, I’ve gotta say. When you were laughing at my jokes earlier it was something else, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that sound. I don’t mean that in a bad way, though!” Harry paused, knowing he sounded ridiculous. “I’m not good at this, sorry.”

“No, go on. I like where this is going.” With a satisfied grin, Draco leaned back on his hands and listened as Harry complimented him thoroughly. He hadn’t known that Harry thought any of these things, had never imagined Harry had a kind word to say about him at all, so hearing that he did was all the more delightful.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have you laugh at something I’d said the way you were today, but I didn’t think I’d ever experience it. And, although you’re definitely an attention-seeking git, I’m much more fond of giving you attention when you’re not seeking it by starting a fight. I never knew you could be kind and patient, or that you would be that way with me, like how you were when you broke my foot.” Harry laughed as Draco pulled a face. 

“I thought you hated me so much that you _couldn’t_ be that way with me, Harry continued. “It feels like I’m learning so much about you, during my visits here. While you’ve only been pleasant with me a few times times, out of the many times I’ve visited— and one of those occasions only became pleasant because you broke my foot— I feel… I really like you when you’re not being a prick. More than I expected to. It doesn’t help that you’re one of the most attractive blokes I’ve ever seen, though. That fact definitely gives you more leeway than you probably deserve, to be honest.” Harry figured, if they were getting everything out on the table, he might as well be honest about that, too.

“You think I’m— fuck off,” Draco laughed, shaking his head. “There are far more attractive people out there, Potter, you just have to look for them.”

“Take the fucking compliment,” Harry said, rolling his eyes and waving off Draco’s words. “I don’t think you realise how many people I’ve seen, and from all over the world.” The word ‘seen’ could easily be replaced with ‘fucked,’ but Harry decided to keep things vague. “I don’t know why, but since I started visiting you I’ve been having this stupid, unrealistic desire for you to like me, and every time I come here I’m disappointed, but I can’t give up on you. I seriously could not tell you why that is, but it’s probably why we’ve had such a hard time with each other. After years of nothing but animosity, it’s got to be strange, and a bit suspicious, to have me suddenly being nice to you.”

“Why _did_ you start being nice to me?” Draco asked, hesitation clear in his voice. “I noticed the change immediately, but I’d thought mother had put you up to it. When I asked her, she said she hadn’t, but I didn’t believe her until last week when you came reciting awful poems at my door.”

“Honestly, I was testing a theory,” Harry said, and he could already tell that he was headed in a dangerous direction when Draco’s eyes narrowed. “But when you started reciprocating, it just… came naturally, sort of.”

“Sort of?” Draco scoffed. “And what theory were you testing? I should’ve known your kindness was nothing but a farce.”

“Don’t even start,” Harry sighed, exhausted after all the emotional heights he’d been to that evening. “I was trying to see if you… if you maybe, er, had feelings for me? But then you started being a prick again, so I figured the theory was proven wrong, eventually.” God, this was embarrassing. Harry mentally cursed Hermione, even though he knew this wasn’t her fault in the slightest.

“Is that so?” Harry couldn’t decipher the look on Draco’s face, and felt like he’d plunged off a cliff. “Interesting.”

“That’s all you have to say?” His heart was beating frantically, unsure of where he stood, at that moment, with Draco. Probably, he should’ve just left that last bit out, or lied and said the theory was about something else entirely. Reminding himself that this was all or nothing, Harry swallowed thickly and accepted that he’d made an arse of himself yet again, and wondered what was the worst that could happen. 

“For now. It’s my turn, right?” Harry nodded, feeling his panic being replaced by anticipation. What would Draco say about him? His excitement turned into a very large rolling of his eyes when Draco said, “Your hair.”

“You said you hated my hair!” Harry laughed, shaking his head.

“Yes, and you said you hated mine. It’s a love/hate relationship, alright?” he said impatiently. “It gives you this rebellious look, as though rules never have, and never will matter to you. Which, I suppose, they probably don’t. Curls are sort of my weakness, Potter,” Draco said in a rough, hushed tone. It was an embarrassing thing to admit, but after all the deliciously personal information Harry had given him, he felt the urge to reciprocate in some way.

“Then why did you list it as your first complaint about me?”

“Why did you do the same?” Draco said, lifting an eyebrow in challenge. “It’s because I was never allowed to let my hair go wild like yours, you idiot. Like you said, my parents forced me to slick my hair back, so when I saw that you— you, who were permitted to do pretty much everything I couldn’t— had this unmanageable, unpredictable, curly mass of hair, free to do as it pleased, I hated it and loved it immediately.”

“Love is a-a pretty strong word,” Harry pointed out, not really minding the use of it, necessarily. Hearing Draco use it in reference to him caused his head to swim a bit, though.

“I’m aware. Moving on.” Draco looked Harry up and down and wondered what he didn’t like about Harry’s physical appearance, and whether he should let Harry know that he couldn’t come up with anything. “You’re bloody fit, though I’m sure you’re aware. It’s pointless to even talk about the things I like about you that are physical, because the list is long and all-encompassing. Suffice it to say that I also find you incredibly attractive. Don’t let my saying so give you a big head, though,” he added as Harry began smiling hugely at Draco’s words. “Merlin knows it’s big enough already.

“Your capacity for love is… it’s terrifying, to someone like me, but so staggering. You’re like a modern-day Jesus Christ,” Draco laughed.

“I hardly think that’s true,” Harry said, shocked at the comparison, and that Draco even knew who Jesus was.

“Alright, perhaps that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but you get what I’m saying. I’ve never known someone who could forgive so easily, and love so fiercely. The way you love your friends… I’ve always wanted that, or to be able to love that way, but I’m not sure I can. You make it seem so easy.” Draco paused and shook his head. “You’ve always been a beacon of hope, to me, and I know others have thought of you that way, too. I may have never showed that— primarily because you were constantly adored, and didn’t need my praise as well— but it’s true. Call it one of my deepest, darkest secrets. And now, before I embarrass myself further, I’ll leave things off there.”

“Wow,” Harry breathed, completely lost for words with more syllables or thought than that. 

“I know. Pathetic, aren’t I?”

“No, not at all.” Harry shook his head and willed words to come to him. “A bit shorter than my ‘Things I Like’ list, but not bad.”

“Well, I figured you’ve had your fair share of praise for the past seven years. If it wasn’t enough, feel free to pick up tomorrow’s edition of the _Prophet_.” Draco’s real reasoning behind keeping his list short was that he was worried he’d let something a bit too personal slip out, something he wouldn’t be able to take back and might desperately want to after it was already too late.

“Okay,” Harry said, drawing out the word as he gave Draco an odd, sort of analytical look. There was a lot Harry could say to that, but for the sake of keeping the peace, he asked, “So, how do you feel now that we’ve gotten everything out in the open?” 

“Better,” Draco answered, a bit lamely. 

“Me too. Oh!” Harry exclaimed, remembering something. “You never gave Theren that gift because you wound up throwing a fit.”

 

“Malfoys do not throw fits, Potter,” Draco drawled.

“Is that right?” Harry asked, his disbelief evident in his smirk. “What would you call what you did, then?”

“I’d call it, ‘Harry Potter Can Go And Fuck Himself.’ It wasn’t that important anyway. Why do you even remember that?”

“You made it seem important in your letter. Or, at least, interesting. That’s probably why I remembered it.”

“You really want it?” Draco saw a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity arise, here, and knew he had to take it.

“Er, yeah? But we’ll have to get the game back out, won’t we?”

“Not exactly, and remember you said that,” Draco said, his voice deepening slightly. 

Refusing to think before making his decision to possibly ruin whatever semblance of a friendship they were working toward, Draco got on his hands and knees and crawled the short distance between himself and Harry. As he closed in, Harry’s face passed through several emotions; first confusion, then comprehension, and, finally, something akin to desire. By the time the third look had crossed Harry’s features, Draco was closing in and then, by some miracle, pressing his lips to Harry’s. 

Self doubt and fear of rejection be damned. Draco was aware that this was a show of stupid, irresponsible, Gryffindor bravery, and it was completely out of his nature. As surely as he knew this, a pressure was building in his chest and he didn’t think he could pull himself back if he tried.

At first, Harry did not return the kiss, and Draco’s lips rested completely motionless against Harry’s. Then suddenly, and to Draco’s utter amazement, Harry was kissing him back. That was all it took for Draco to know he’d taken the proper risk. That was all it took for Draco to lean into the kiss, eyes closed, and put all of himself into this small meeting of flesh. He didn’t know if he would ever experience this in the future, and he would be remiss, slipshod, negligent if he didn’t take this for all it was worth.

Never in his life, not even for a moment, did Draco think that he would be leaning over Harry, kissing him as if his life depended on it, and yet here he was, doing just that. Harry could say the same about himself, and was thinking so as he wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist and pulled him in closer. Their teeth clashed once before they figured each other out a bit, and fell into an easy snog that rivalled any Harry had participated in before. Whether it was the history behind the two of them or the buildup and release of heavy emotions that evening, this was different from any kiss Harry had given or been offered before. Not one of the men Luna had brought back on her travels had caused Harry this sort of empty-brained feeling he was experiencing. None of them had made Harry lose all his mental faculties, the way Draco was doing. Harry resorted to pure instinct as he gave Draco as good as he himself was getting.

Groaning, Harry clutched Draco’s shirt, his nails biting into the flesh beneath unapologetically. Draco responded in kind, pushing his chest even tighter against Harry’s. Their lips moved in sync, but he needed more— they both did. Tentatively, Harry opened his mouth and sighed heavily, shakily, when Draco met him half way with his warm tongue. 

Every nerve in both of their bodies was on high-alert, every bit of friction against each other causing waves of pleasure to roll up their spines. Draco’s hip bones were sharp, but Harry liked that. Liked that so much, in fact, that he placed his hands on Draco’s backside and tugged, revelling in the sensation of Draco’s response, which was to arch his back and let his hips to grind against Harry’s. As their tongues tasted each other, swirling and twisting, they met each other on equal ground. This was the first time either of them had felt to be on the same footing, and they both knew it. 

As incredible as they both felt, it couldn’t last forever. Harry was the first to pull away, incapable of hiding his ecstatic bewilderment. For a while they stayed just like that, with Draco kneeling over Harry in the middle of the parlour, their erections straining against fabric they both knew needed to stay in place— this time. Harry searched Draco’s eyes for some sort of meaning, but knew it was pointless; he already knew what Draco had meant by kissing him, and he was pretty sure this wasn’t the gift Erevan was going to offer Theren. 

When he said as much, Draco’s cheeks lit up in response. “No, not exactly,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“Then… why?” 

“Because I wanted to, and I wanted to know if… if you wanted to, too.” Draco hated how poorly he expressed himself sometimes, usually at the most crucial moments. 

Harry chuckled and asked, “Did you get the answer you were looking for?” 

“No,” Draco said, keeping his face as impassive as he could. At Harry’s crestfallen expression, Draco continued. “I think we’d better try again.”


	5. Epilogue

Hermione laughed and shook her curly haired head at the card she held in her hands. She’d been taken aback when a post owl had interrupted her at work, impatiently hopping up and down on her paperwork. Typically her post went straight to her house, where it sat on the kitchen counter waiting when she got home. Not that she particularly minded; the card was from Harry. Hermione had been wondering how Harry was fairing since he’d left the country to travel, something he’d previously said he’d never be able to do. It had been two months and she hadn’t gotten anything from him, and frankly she’d begun to worry some time ago. Now, however, she knew she’d had no reason to worry.

It seemed Harry didn’t, either, she thought as she looked closely at the photo of Malfoy and her best friend, arms wrapped tightly around each other’s waists, standing before a waterfall and waving cheerfully. The view behind the couple was simply incredible, and Hermione felt a stab of envy in her chest as she read Harry’s messy handwriting at the bottom of the photo. It read, ‘ _San Rafael Falls, Ecuador_.’ So that’s where they’d wound up. Flipping the card over, Hermione discovered a short message. 

_Hermione_ , Harry wrote, _we’re in Ecuador! It’s brilliant, and you really should take some time off work to see it. Ron would love it, but he’d probably get sun burned rather quickly, knowing him._

_We’re safe, we’re happy, we’re not done traveling yet. We will be soon, though, because I’ve finally managed to convince Draco it’s time to start up his potions business, and I’m going to be helping him with it. Not, you know, the brewing part, or the company would go under quicker than you could say ‘eye of newt.’ I’ll be the PR man, so that Draco doesn’t have to deal with the public in any way. At least, not yet. That means I won’t have as much time to help everyone else, but maybe that’s for the best._

_Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I haven’t fallen off a mountain or had a bad run in with a jaguar, or something. We’ll be back within the month, I expect, with souvenirs for everyone._

_Love, Harry._

Hermione was reluctant to admit it, but she had been wrong; it hadn’t turned out to be a complete disaster, Harry writing to Narcissa Malfoy. Not that she would ever say so to Harry. It was pretty clear he knew already, Hermione thought as she flipped the card over again and set it upright on her desk. That stab of envy jabbed sharply in Hermione’s chest once more, as Harry and Malfoy’s sun kissed faces beamed happily at her. That postcard was the most colourful, life-filled thing in her entire office, something that was now painfully obvious.

Shoving her chair away from the desk forcefully, Hermione crossed the room to her fireplace and tossed in a pinch of Floo powder.

“Mrs. Granger-Weasley,” Kingsley said pleasantly from behind his desk. He stood, crossing his own office to kneel before his hearth. Seeing the look on Hermione’s face he worriedly asked, “Is something the matter?”

“Something does seem to be the matter, Minister,” Hermione said, not really caring that her tone was fiercer than intended. 

“What’s going on? If there’s anything I can do to help, I’d like to.”

Hermione held back a smile, keeping her expression solemn; that was just what she’d been hoping to hear. “I appreciate that, Minister,” she said gratefully. “As you know, requesting extended time off requires a week’s notice, and I’m afraid I can’t give that notice. You see, Harry’s had a bad run in with a jaguar in Ecuador and I’m afraid I’ll be away from the office for two weeks helping him recover. Oh, and so will Ron.”


End file.
